


Civil Disobedience

by JayEz



Series: Civil Disobedience [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent due to heat cycle, Heat Cycles, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, Revolution, Slavery, Torture, unpleasant!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where social status is determined by Alpha/Beta/omega dynamics and the American Revolution never succeeded, the British Empire is the biggest superpower. Omegas occupy the lowest step on the social ladder and are used as slaves and cheap workers. Betas can lead normal lives – though once convicted of a crime, they are stripped off their rights. Alphas hold the highest positions in government and the regime’s powerful military.</p>
<p>Alpha Mycroft Holmes is the most influential man in the Empire – and he will not let the fact that his brother was born an omega change that. Sherlock has been living as an Alpha his entire live. It doesn’t pose a problem – until a unit of the Reformist movement led by Captain John Watson kidnaps him and denies Sherlock his meds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hostage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merlenhiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver/gifts).



> This is the product of me studying for a Social and Cultural Anthropology test at university. I never did get around to do that much studying, but I got an A/B/o-slavery-Johnlock-AU out of it :). I am rather proud of this one, so please, be gentle with ConCrit…
> 
> Thanks so much to [ merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver) for the last, beautiful beta job she did before a longer break from beta-reading! Without your enabling, this would probably never have been finished!
> 
> EDITED 16-11-2013: A big, enormous THANK YOU goes to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya), my beta for part II of this verse, who has taken the time and Brit-picked this part as well (and corrected some mistakes left while she was at it).  
> She is also the one who named the chapters. Really, thank you! It takes the story to a whole new level, in my opinion :)

John slows his breathing, adjusts the projectile, and pulls the trigger.

The tranquilizer hits the man right in the carotid artery, releasing the chemicals into the Alpha’s bloodstream. He drops like a sack of potatoes. 

“Alpha One down. Proceed,” John orders his unit through the com line. 

Five people move in unison towards the house’s back door. John steps over the body next to the rubbish bins and follows his team. 

Lubitsch opens the door and John peers into the room. Empty. 

A brief gesture, into the next room, also vacant, through the hallway, then – voices. 

Wife and daughter. Two shots necessary. 

John and Lubitsch share a look, Wilder kicks the door open and then they are inside and the two Alphas drop to the wooden floor, unconscious. 

John activates his com-line again. “Lion to Eagle. Alphas are down. Ready for extraction in two minutes.”

“Understood, Lion,” Irene Adler’s voice answers.

The unit proceeds into the cellar and quickly finds who they are looking for: The family’s six omega slaves – no, five omegas, one Beta, the scent is telling John – are bound to the wall. 

The Beta seems a bit weak but otherwise unharmed, the women on the other hand have sustained a heavy beating. The youngest girl, perhaps 17 years old, sports a collar of bruises along her neck. The image and its implications chase a shiver down John’s spine.

He has seen it often. Usually, Alphas treat their omegas fairly well; they are fed and clothed. Sometimes, however, they encounter families who would mistreat their slaves, exploit them sexually until their injuries made them useless as workers, and the family had them put down.  
Any Alpha can put a bullet in an omega’s brain and not lose sleep over it. Legally, omegas have no rights. They are property of the government or of private owners. 

“Shh,” John says and approaches the group of omegas with his hands held high. They smell his Alpha status; he can see the fear in their eyes. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m Captain John Watson of the Reformists. We heard about your owners torturing you. We’re here to free you.”

“Free us?” the girl croaks and John makes a mental note to have her checked for internal injuries. She apparently was the man’s favourite. 

“Yes. We’ll take you back to our base. You will have a mattress, warm water, and plenty to eat. My friends will unchain you now, alright?”

He nods at Lubitsch and Wilder who crouch down to release the six people. 

*

Once he has tended to their injuries and provided them with clothes, John leaves the slaves in the care of another comrade who would find them a place to sleep and a warm meal. 

Their base of operation is located underground, getting in is impossible if you don’t know where to search for the entrance. They are well equipped thanks to a few wealthy supporters in terms of food, clothing, medical and military supplies. 

Still, the absence of windows always reminds John of the cellar in his family’s house, cold, dark, unwelcoming. 

People try very hard to make HQ comfortable by decorating the rooms or painting walls, but in the past weeks the Empire has been closing in and the atmosphere has become tense.  
Panic is in the air. 

“Well done, Captain.” A sombre voice shakes John out of his reverie and he finds himself face to face with Homi Bhabha, one of the three leaders of the Reformist movement. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Two omegas John recognizes as recently rescued slaves do a double take when they hear an obvious Alpha like John call an omega like Bhabha “sir”. 

“Adler, Thoreau and I are very satisfied. The SAS hasn’t found any traces of us, according to our sources.”

“Good.”

Homi Bhabha possesses a calm that claims respect, a passion for their cause that claims loyalty and is – above all – an advocate of non-violent resistance. It is thanks to Bhabha taking a stand with Adler and Thoreau that John uses tranquillisers and not real bullets.

“Sir, I hear rumours about the SAS closing in on our location.” It is neither a question nor a statement and Bhabha’s reaction is telling John all he needs to know. 

He swallows. “So it would seem.” He doesn’t say more.

*

“I’m not your puppet, Mycroft.” 

Sherlock’s defiant gaze would have reduced lesser men to a cowering mess. Mycroft is no such man, however. 

“No, but you are reliant on my help with certain, ah, issues.” 

Sherlock winces almost unnoticeably. Mycroft should feel guilty, he guesses, for using his brother’s genetic make-up as a means of blackmail, but he is dealing with matters of international importance. 

“It’s a boring case.”

“That flash drive contained invaluable information on secret developments.”

“Then putting it on such a device wasn’t a very smart move by your employees.”

“Believe me, Sherlock, heads have rolled.” Mycroft is speaking only half-figuratively. Heads might not have rolled, but the perpetrator is dead none the less. One less Beta in the world hardly matters. That flash drive on the other hand… 

“So we have a deal?”

His brother draws a deep breath that is shaking with barely contained anger. At the end of it, however, he nods curtly. 

Mycroft hands him the file. 

“Make this your priority.” Sherlock turns with a flourish of his coat. “Oh, and brother?” Sherlock merely makes an acknowledging noise but doesn’t turn around. “I will know if you don’t.”

“I de-bugged my flat yesterday.”

“I have more ways than that to keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock turns to raise one disdainful eyebrow at him. “Your energy and time would be better spent monitoring the Reformists. Your assistants and staff are all tense; I assume they freed another family’s slaves?”

It hits a bit too close to home. Mycroft remains silent, yet it is all the answer Sherlock needs.  
Sherlock might be an omega, but they are still equally brilliant. 

His brother huffs and leaves. 

Only Sherlock could laugh at the current situation. The Reformists are gaining in strength, support amongst the people is rising and gradually, even the Betas are becoming restless. 

If he doesn’t play his cards right, civil war will be inevitable. 

20 per cent Alphas. 40 per cent Betas. 40 per cent omegas. 

It doesn’t take a mind like Mycroft Holmes’ to deduce their chances are looking bleak. 

*

“ _The students are holding secret meetings. Speaking of things like equality and liberty. Must have heard it from friends in France, you know what’s happening there._ ”

Mike’s words are still ringing in John’s ears. 

A dark shadow of foreboding lies thick over London as he makes his way back to HQ from St Bart’s where he meets with his friend once a week. Mike teaches at university – he has a direct line to the young generation. 

Of course John knows of France – all his comrades are aware that there is a revolution on the rise across the ocean. Still, the French have tried once before and failed. But the young outnumber the old and desperately want to step out of their parents’ shadow. 

John prays for them to be victorious. Liberal legislation, or perhaps even democracy only a few miles away from the heart of the Empire? That would energise their forces. 

If they will hold out that long. 

SAS activity has doubled over the past week. More raids, more arrests happen every day and John wouldn’t be surprised if the government pushed for stricter laws within the next few days. 

“Captain Watson?” Ghandi’s voice. Ghandi is a white kid from Sussex named Colin but his love for the Indian reformer runs so deep that he has the Reformists call him Ghandi.

“Yes?” John hopes his comrade only wants a quick word. The boy is an omega and his heat cycle is approaching, merely 24 hours away judging by his scent, and on principle John keeps his distance from any omega when he or she is in heat. 

“The Triumvirate sent for you.”

“You know they don’t like it when you call them that.”

“Well, they’re three leaders. Triumvirate.” 

“Don’t let them hear you, kid. Off with you, back to your books.”

Ghandi smiles warmly and runs down the corridor. If John hadn’t known that omegas were as intelligent as or even smarter than the average Alpha before he met the kid, John would have been converted the moment he held a passionate speech about Henry David Thoreau and his work on Civil Disobedience that left John’s brain in knots. 

John finds the Triumvirate in their conference room. 

Irene Adler looks stunning as always, though the fact that John is sensing an Alpha smell doesn’t bode well. Adler was born with a genetic mutation – she can alter her status and appear as Alpha, Beta and omega. It is fascinating, though John suspects that the lack of identity takes more out of the woman than she lets on. 

Bhabha is deep in discussion with Marc Thoreau, great-grandchild of none other than the same Henry David Thoreau Ghandi is so fond of. Marc holds many traits people have ascribed to his great-grandfather with one major exception: Where Henry advocated non-violent protest, Marc has an itchy trigger finger. 

Whenever he and Bhabha argue, it usually boils down to that issue. Today isn’t any different. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” John asks loudly to be heard over the raised voices of the two men. The omega and Beta fall silent instantly.

As no one volunteers to address the issue, Irene steps away from the map of Greater London that is covering half the wall. 

“Yes, John. We have a new mission for you.”

“We haven’t decided yet,” Bhabha interjects. 

“We have. Two against one. It’s final, Bhabha.”

“Thoreau, your ancestor would turn in his grave if he knew what you were suggesting!”

“Good thing that he was shot and burnt and doesn’t have a grave to turn in.”

“What’s all this about?” John tries again. 

“The government is closing in on us. SAS activity has tremendously increased.” One can always count on Irene to cut to the chase. “We need to take action.”

“But not like this!”

Irene ignores the omega. “We’re not ready for anything large” – which John’s mind translates to civil war in a moment of horror – “so we have to start on a smaller scale. Kidnapping and blackmail.”

“It goes against all our principles -“

“We’ve surpassed the state of moral superiority; lives are at stake, Bhabha!” 

“Who?” John asks. Who could hold such value that Irene and Thoreau think they could bargain with his or her life? Everyone knows that even the highest ranking Alphas aren’t immune to assassination by their own people. 

Irene’s smile turns malicious as she pushes a folder towards John across the table. 

Blue, piercing eyes meet John’s gaze as he opens the file. The man has cheekbones that warrant a licence and dark curls that contrast beautifully with his pale skin. 

There isn’t much information. Sherlock Holmes, 34, Alpha. 

“Holmes?” The name can fill even the most battle-worn Reformist with fear. John has never met the man in person, is glad for it, too, since hardly any Reformist lives to tell the tale. Yet John has always imagined him a bit older and less lean from the stories. 

“No, not Mycroft Holmes. Kidnapping him would be suicide,” Thoreau explains. “This is his brother.”

John raises his eyebrows. 

“Our informant has supplied us with enough information that we can devise a plan to take Sherlock Holmes down easily.” 

“What are we going to do with him once he is in our custody?”

“We use him to blackmail Mycroft Holmes.” Thoreau seems convinced of his indestructible plan, yet John could blow several holes in it already without even drawing his Sig. 

“Are you sure that is wise?”

“I keep telling them,” Bhabha snarls, “that Mycroft Holmes is not the kind of man who would let the kidnapping of his brother change anything. He’d rather let the man die before considering giving in to blackmail.”

“And as we keep telling you, it’s two against one.”

John closes the folder and straightens himself up to his full height. 

“Isn’t this an issue for the Grand Council?” 

John is surprised they haven’t sought advice from their council on the matter before calling him in. Major operations always go through this channel. 

“It will take too long,” Thoreau objects. “If we call a meeting, we will have a decision by the day after tomorrow if we’re lucky. We need time to plan the operation before the SAS are knocking on our front door!”

Irene’s eyes are fixed on John, as are Marc’s. John belatedly realises they are trying to stare him down. 

No. He was not going to kidnap a man – Mycroft Holmes’s brother above all else – if the Council hadn’t signed off on it. 

“This decision is too big for three people to make. Call me when the Council has reached an agreement.”

John slides the folder back across the table and leaves the room. It turns out to be quite satisfactory to be able to tell them no. 

He is not only the commanding officer but also their best soldier and they know it.

*

Sherlock returns the flash drive to his brother just in time for Lestrade’s embarrassing press conference about the serial suicides. 

He would have loved to see the DI’s face when all the journalists’ mobiles went off simultaneously. 

Twenty-four hours later his eyes are still burning from the alarming shade of pink the third victim wore the previous night. Lestrade would have a fit that Sherlock took the case but as far as the DI is concerned, Sherlock is an Alpha and Mycroft Holmes’ brother on top of that. 

Besides, he solves half the Yard’s cases for them anyway. Lestrade should be kissing the ground Sherlock walks on in gratitude. 

Though despite the myriad of different crimes Sherlock has seen and solved, nothing can quite match the thrill of this one. 

His hand isn’t shaking when he takes the pill. It is almost in his mouth when the shot rings out and the cabbie drops to the floor. 

For a split second Sherlock stands still, searching the window for the source of the shot, but the next thing he hears are footsteps on the stairs so he leaps forward, pressing his foot into the wound that is oozing red liquid and soaking the cabbie’s shirt. 

“Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my ‘fan’. I want a name.”

The man shakes his head weakly. Sherlock presses down harder and he gasps in pain. 

“A name.” Another pained sound. “NOW!” Sherlock notes that the footsteps have stopped in front of the door. 

The imminent threat registers but curiosity overrides it as Sherlock puts his entire weight onto the killer’s shoulder. 

“The name!”

Then, finally, drawn out in agony, the cabbie shouts, “Moriarty!” His body stills as life leaves him. 

Before Sherlock can consider what or who Moriarty is, he feels a sharp sting in his neck. He raises his hand and turns towards the door. 

The last he sees before he loses consciousness are five men, guns drawn.

*

When Sherlock drifts back into the world, he finds himself in a small room. 

Four by four metres, about two metres high, bare walls, door locked from the outside, no handle. No windows but a ventilation shaft. The lid looks unyielding.

Sherlock would try to support his observation by trying to unhinge it, but whatever the men have injected him with keeps him firmly on his back. 

So he stays put and bides his time.

*

“The mission went smoothly. The mark took over the investigation and followed the cabbie to the building. When the mark took the pill from the killer I shot him from the neighbouring house. Lubitsch and the rest of our men took Holmes without a problem.”

John hates debriefings. Being the member of an underground opposition frees him from the paperwork he had to endure during his time with the military, but he still has to report to the Triumvirate or in this case, the Grand Council. 

“Did Holmes not struggle?” Bhabha asks with an air of suspicion. 

“No, sir. Lubitsch described the scene he encountered to me. Apparently, the mark was more interested in obtaining information from the wounded cabbie than in defending himself.”

Irene Adler snorts. “That’s to be expected. From what I can gather, the man lives for puzzles. He’d rather take a risk than pass on an opportunity to find out more.”

Intriguing. Doesn’t this man have any survival instincts?

“Captain Watson,” Thoreau begins, utterly pleased with himself and the way Bhabha is glaring at him, “as commanding officer and the only Alpha experienced enough to handle the situation, we place you in charge of Sherlock Holmes.”

“What are my duties?”

“Keep him healthy and get him to talk if you can.”

“I won’t torture him, Thoreau.”

“I wasn’t asking you to. We want to use him as leverage, not as a means to an end in himself. Don’t let him escape or get a message to his friends.”

“Understood.”

*

He is on babysitting duty. Bloody brilliant. 

Despite his annoyance, John feels a thrill of anticipation as he is making his way to Sherlock Holmes’ cell. Not that the HQ has cells. It is a common room, actually, with a few modifications to the lock. 

John positions two guards on the door and enters, vigilant yet confident. 

The man scrambles into a sitting position. Of course, the tranquilliser wouldn’t allow him to stand up just yet. John quickly scans his body for any sign of discomfort but finds none.

John senses the blue eyes on him and feels as if they were taking him apart. He wishes Sherlock’s file contained more information on the man. 

“Who are you?” For a hostage, Sherlock seems to be quite rude. 

He holds Sherlock’s look for a few seconds to leave no doubt about who is in charge. “John Watson. I’m your handler while you’re here.”

“Handler?” Those blue eyes narrow. “And how long will I have to spend here?”

“That depends on your brother.”

The man catches on surprisingly quickly. Understanding blooms on his face which then contorts in a bitter sneer. 

“Please. Blackmailing Mycroft with me as leverage is pointless. Shoot me right now and spare yourselves the trouble.”

“You seem to have little faith in your brother.”

“My brother is a politician. He wouldn’t lose a minute of his beauty sleep over me. But of course,” Sherlock’s smirk turns wicked, “having a sibling of your own, you can’t comprehend how anyone could so easily abandon a brother.”

John tenses, his hand shooting to his Sig. “How do you know I have a sibling?”

The man holds his gaze, unwavering. “The same way I know you’re an army doctor who’s been invalided home. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John knows he is staring and shakes himself out of it. Sherlock Holmes probably has an entire file on him, courtesy of his brother. 

“Afghanistan. How did you know?”

At that, Sherlock actually smiles. “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the way you examined me with a look when you entered the room says medical training, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is still slightly tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. You roll your left shoulder subconsciously, wounded in action, sent home or otherwise you’d still be fighting in Afghanistan, the Empire wouldn’t let a fit soldier go otherwise.”

Unbelievable. “You said I had a sibling.”

“That was easy. Your inflection and tone when you told me the plan was to blackmail Mycroft told me you are operating under the illusion that you can relate. Also, the watch you’re wearing is expensive, too expensive for a Reformist, but then it’s quite old. A gift, then. It’s a man’s watch, so brother it is. He is in trouble of some sort, probably gave you the watch as a token to remember him by. It’s still in nearly perfect condition, so you spend much time tending to it.”  
Sherlock focuses his intense stare on John once more. “Your neck is tense, you’ve just come from a meeting. Probably where they told you that you would be my handler. You’re a man of action so you don’t like the prospect of babysitting me; though your body language has shifted subtly since you entered the room so your attitude has changed slightly. You’re no longer overly annoyed, only mildly, but intrigued.”

The man finishes with a click of his tongue and rests his back against the bare wall, eyes closed. 

“That… was amazing.”

At that, Sherlock leans forward again, eyes snapping open in surprise. 

“Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” He isn’t lying. That man has only just laid eyes on him and he can tell most of John’s life story. 

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’.”

John can’t help but smile at that. He knows several people who would have told Sherlock exactly that, perhaps even in a few more colourful ways. 

“So, was I right then?” Sherlock looks up at John from the mattress and for a second John registers how long the man’s lashes are. 

“Almost. I don’t have a brother.”

“How is that -“

“I have a sister.”

Sherlock lets out a frustrated sound. “There’s always something. Sister. That was a tough one.”

John shakes his head in disbelieve since his hostage – yes, hostage, not guest, John – appears to be seriously angry with himself. 

“Are you hurt?”

It distracts Sherlock from his self-berating. He shakes his head. 

“Good. The effects of the tranquilliser should fade within the next six hours, so if you still experience the sensations tonight, let me know.” Sherlock doesn’t nod but John assumes he must have heard him. “Are you hungry?”

“No. I require little food.”

“Why?” Usually, Alpha biology also heightens a person’s metabolism. 

“Food distracts me from thinking. My body is nothing but a vessel.”

John lets that remark stand there for a moment. 

“I’ll ask you again at lunchtime. We’ll see if the vessel needs fuel by then.”

John nods at Sherlock and turns to go, though stops when the man asks, “How did you know I would be in the building?”

John moves to face Sherlock again. “It was a trap. The whole cabbie thing.”

His eyes widen. “So he wasn’t the real killer?”

“Oh, he was. We just managed to push him in your direction,” John says elusively. He has given away enough already.

Sherlock considers him for a moment but doesn’t say more, so John leaves the cell. 

*

The army doctor keeps his promise to come back at lunchtime but Sherlock merely looks at him and the Reformist departs without another word. 

He probably regrets being overly talkative with his hostage. 

Captain John Watson is a paradox. He holds himself like a real soldier, with the sort of confidence that only stems from genuine skill. He is one of the strongest Alphas Sherlock has ever encountered and could have easily climbed the ranks in the SAS, yet here he is, helping a bunch of idealistic fools. 

Something must have happened. It is a puzzle. 

Though to solve it, he needs more data. 

By mid-afternoon, Sherlock is able to stand on his feet again. As he predicted, the lid of the ventilation shaft is unyielding. His lock-picking kit is in his coat, which the Reformists took from him. All they left him are his trousers and his purple button-down. And his socks. 

He manages to occupy himself with walking about the sixteen square metres for approximately eight and a half minutes (in which he has determined the chemical make-up of the walls) before his brain is screaming in agonised boredom. 

When a key turns in the lock, Sherlock snaps back to real life immediately. 

It is John, carrying a tray with what looks like toast, beans, and scrambled eggs on a plate. 

“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not, I’m your captor, so when I say you eat, you do so.”

Sherlock snorts. Alphas. So full of themselves. 

He is about to decline when he takes notice of the smell. It has been quite some time since he has last eaten, he realises. 

With a condescending glare, Sherlock accepts the food and nudges it cautiously with his fork. 

“It’s not poisoned. We need you alive.”

That isn’t what has caught Sherlock’s attention. “This is self-made.”

“Yes, my abilities surpass pulling a trigger, actually.”

Sherlock tries the eggs and finds John’s cooking quite satisfactory, which he is careful not to let on. 

He feels the Captain’s eyes on him a few moments later. 

“You have questions.”

“Yes. What exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one there is, given that I invented the job.”

“I thought the police didn’t hire amateurs.”

“From what I deduced this morning, I doubt you’d still consider me an amateur.”

The Captain is silent again and Sherlock sneaks a glance at him around a mouthful of toast. His neck has become even tenser and his left hand is trembling ever so slightly. 

The tremor was non-existent this morning. 

Something has changed. 

“How long are you going to keep me before you contact my brother?”

John narrows his eyes. “It has been decided that we wait until your brother notices you’re gone. Our leaders don’t want to rush this.”

“It won’t take long. But until then, you’re trapped in here.”

“How did you -“

“There’s a slight tremor in your left hand which wasn’t there when we spoke this morning when you were operating under the impression that this hostage situation would be resolved within a day or two and subsequently you could return to the field. But now you’re left in the dark with nothing to do but babysit me. For a man who thrives on adrenaline and action this, of course, would produce a psychosomatic tremor.”

John looks at his hand and deliberately stops it from shaking. 

“Amazing.”

A smile tugs at Sherlock’s lips despite his efforts not to show any reaction. He quickly changes the subject.

“Why are you with the Reformists?”

“Why, is that so surprising for an Alpha?”

“Not necessarily. Though you are quite a strong one and you have medical training – you would have made it far in the Empire, even if you couldn’t be a soldier anymore. But with the right amount of physiotherapy, your shoulder wouldn’t have been an obstacle had you wished to resume your military career.”

He considers the Alpha for a moment and John almost grows uncomfortable under his gaze. 

“I’m sure you have a theory. Let’s hear it, then, shall we?”

Sherlock finishes the last of his beans, sets the knife and fork down and presses his fingertips together as he looks straight at the Captain from his position on the mattress.

“The watch – you hold it dear, it’s meticulously clean and well-cared for. A gift from your sister, we’ve already established that. You haven’t seen her in awhile; either because she left you, was taken from you, or died. She is an omega in every scenario. Having an omega as your sister would cause some degree of contemplation regarding the Empire’s status rules. Yet you’re not merely a sympathising Alpha, you’re in the front row of the Reformist movement, playing an active part. That kind of loyalty and devotion needs more motivation. Something happened in Afghanistan. India’s independence greatly influenced the side of the country not dominated by petty wars, and many of the ethnic groups don’t adhere to the Alpha-omega order the Empire implemented any more. Of course, you would have witnessed how life was possible outside of biological constraints. There had to have been an incident, some kind of eye-opening experience.” 

John’s eyes widen while Sherlock draws his conclusions, which confirms his theories without the need for actual words. 

It isn’t that extraordinary in the end. Knowledge of other cultures has led Homi Bhabha to the realisation that the social inequalities between Alphas and omegas are due to power discrepancies and oppression. There is no basic truth in the Empire’s system, no natural imperative underlying the practice of slavery. 

Bhabha provided the omegas with easily understandable phrases in his writings and gradually, the Reformists formed. 

It is nothing new. Whether they call it Enlightenment or Revelation doesn’t change that history is repeating itself. 

But Sherlock is drifting off. His brain, when bored, tends to get carried away. 

The pause evidently gave John time to collect himself. 

“I was wounded in battle shortly before an explosion killed most of my team. I was sure that if I didn’t die from my wounds, our enemies would shoot me.” John’s voice is low as the memories wash through him. “I woke up in someone’s home. He was an omega and had suffered all his life during civil wars and political disputes but he… He could have killed me. He didn’t. Instead he tended to my wounds and sent me back out there, knowing that I was an Alpha, representing everything that made his life difficult. He explained that, in his eyes, biology doesn’t determine a person’s worth. It’s the ruling parties who enslave and take peoples’ rights away.”

John pauses, but Sherlock can easily fill in the blanks. 

“So when you were invalided home, you left the military and joined the Reformists.”

The soldier nods, defiantly proud. “And now, we’re holding you hostage.”

Sherlock huffs at the sudden change of topic. “A futile endeavour.”

“Our leaders believe it is the best course of action.”

“They don’t know Mycroft.”

“But you do. You work for him?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. Smooth, how John is weaving questions in the conversation. A little bit of intel, Sherlock muses, wouldn’t hurt. 

“Sometimes he crumbles and draws on my intellectual superiority and deductive skills.”

John smirks, probably at the arrogance dripping from his voice but doesn’t react in any other way. 

“The rest of the time, I take it,” the Alpha goes on, “DI Lestrade gives you cases?” 

“You already know that.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock holds John’s gaze for a moment, making it clear that he isn’t going to give up any more information. 

John nods, takes the empty plate and turns to leave. 

“Someone will come to take you to the bathroom shortly,” he says and is out of the door before Sherlock can reply. 

*

The night and the following morning pass in an endless stretch of nothing. Sherlock tries to numb his mind but doesn’t succeed. 

He knows that it is going to take at least another day or two until Mycroft notices he is gone. Sherlock tries to calculate how long it will take for him to go into detox, yet he has no data to draw any conclusions from. 

Sherlock hasn’t taken his medication for two days in a row. He has heard stories of antagonising detox when an omega would stop taking the hormones, but has no idea how long he has until the process will start.

John brings him breakfast and a bottle of water. He brings him lunch as well and Sherlock finds he quite enjoys the soldier’s simple yet delicious concoctions although he keeps insisting that he doesn’t require three meals a day.

“Anything else you need?” John asks when he takes the empty tray from Sherlock. 

“I’m bored,” he states and hopes it will suffice. John merely raises an eyebrow. “I could do with a book. Or a case.”

John smiles indulgently. “Well, we’re a bit short on those, you see, we’re not quite legal so we’re not allowed to investigate anything. But I’ll see what I can do.”

True to his word, John returns two hours later with a stack of books. 

He pauses before he leaves the room, hand on the doorknob, and Sherlock refrains from asking what he wants, eager to see what books can be found in the Reformist HQ. 

“Sherlock, why has no one noticed you’ve been gone for two days?”

“Mycroft, as even you might be able to deduce, is a very busy man.”

The Captain rolls his eyes and angles his body so that he’s facing Sherlock. “And what about your friends?”

“I don’t have friends.”

“What do you mean, everybody has friends,” John replies, amused. 

“Well, I’m not everybody.” 

John must have seen that he is being serious for his smile disappears. 

“Please, spare me any awkward moments and simply leave. I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me all hours of the day.”

Sherlock only has one second to glimpse the emotion that flits across John’s face before he schools his expression and leaves the cell. 

*

There’s no mention of his lack of social life when John brings him dinner, which Sherlock is grateful for. He manages to immerse himself in a series of crime novels, ignoring how obvious the murderer is every time, ignoring how bluntly the author drops hints for the readership. 

Sherlock complains to John about it, and the reformist chuckles. 

“I’m sorry, but our library isn’t very well-stocked,” he explains as he exits the room. 

After showering under supervision – the Reformists, however, are keen to give him his privacy and the guard doesn’t actually watch him shower, a gesture he does appreciate – he falls asleep but wakes with a start a few hours later. 

He can feel pain, faint but definitely there, all over his body. His head aches and he is sure he is developing a fever. 

No one is to notice, he decides. Especially not John, an Alpha with medical training. 

Sherlock knows that it is a lost endeavour, should Mycroft not rescue him within the next day, which is highly unlikely. The scent alone will tell John everything he needs to know. 

Still, Sherlock prides himself with incredible control over his body, and he is determined to hide his condition for as long as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homi Bhabha, for those who care, actually is a professor at Harvard and the leading figure in post-colonial studies. Sherlock's account of his past draws heavily from Bhabha's real life.  
> Goes to show that I had the original idea for this AU during the lecture on post-colonial cultural anthropology :)


	2. First Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First comes withdrawal. Then the heat.

John grows suspicious when Sherlock basically dismisses him after he finishes lunch and tells him he needn’t return with dinner. 

“All this food makes my head spin,” he explains, looking sincere. 

It has taken Sherlock longer than usual to eat his food and it almost looks as though he had to force himself to get it all down. 

The doubts and worry keep nagging at John the entire afternoon; not even the training drill manages to distract him. 

“Where are you going, sir?” Lubitsch asks when John makes to leave immediately after training. 

“Checking up on – Holmes.” He almost called him Sherlock. 

_Hostage, not guest. Hostage, not guest_ , he reminds himself. 

Lubitsch doesn’t pry but nods curtly and gathers his weapons.

John nods at the guard who unlocks the door for him. Sherlock is curled up on the bed, a book open in front of him and his eyes are gliding across the pages but John can tell the man has just woken up. 

“Wanted to see if you still didn’t want any dinner,” he states, watching Sherlock’s eyes narrow. Something is off, yet John can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“My wishes haven’t changed.”

“Alright. If they do, tell the guard outside.”

Sherlock nods and returns his attention to the book. John can tell the hostage is waiting for him to leave, but he lingers for a moment longer, considering Sherlock. In vain, it turns out, as nothing strikes him as off, so he turns around and opens the door. 

*

After a very frustrating meeting with the Triumvirate (well, Ghandi’s nickname is quite catchy) John finds himself in the break room reserved for higher ranking personnel, brewing tea. 

A look at the time tells him that Sherlock is being led to the showers right now, and John decides to make him tea as well. Sherlock has never commented on it, but John suspects that Sherlock really prefers tea over bottled water. 

China is hazardous – John wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to come up with a way to use a cup of tea to make an escape – which is why John refrains from bringing Sherlock tea more often.

Unfortunately, they don’t have many plastic cups at HQ, all part of the environmentally friendly side to their campaign. 

He has folders to go through, so he sets the cup down next to Sherlock’s empty mattress and leaves the cell again. 

A commotion a few doors down the hall catches his attention – he feels his body tense, his senses sharpen, and a hand darts to his Sig. 

When he rounds a corner he sees what the origin of the noises is: Sherlock, purple shirt half unbuttoned and missing his socks, is fighting a guard. 

The attempted escape doesn’t surprise John in the slightest, he only muses why Sherlock’s plan hadn’t been better thought out. 

When the fighting pair turns so Sherlock has his back to where John is standing, he advances. The guard hits the ground after a particularly hard blow from Sherlock, but John’s attack surprises the taller man and within a few moments, John has Sherlock pinned to the ground, hands around slender but strong wrists. 

Sherlock is breathing hard, almost ragged, his eyes glazed. John releases one wrist when he is sure he can hold Sherlock down one-handedly and brings the back of his hand up to Sherlock’s forehead. 

The skin is burning. 

John’s hand returns to Sherlock’s wrist and finds a racing pulse. 

“You’re sick,” he says as he rises to his feet. That probably also explains the ill thought out escape plan. “I will get you to the infirmary.”

He helps Sherlock up just as another soldier rounds the corner, whom he instructs to take care of the guard and the one presumably unconscious on the bathroom floor. 

After a few steps Sherlock’s feet give out from under him, so John readjusts his grip and half-carries, half-drags the man.

“You don’t need to…” Sherlock protests faintly. 

John chuckles. “I do, because your feet are too weak to do it on their own.”

He can feel the attempted struggle, but Sherlock’s heart isn’t in it. After a moment, the man’s arms wrap around John’s neck for support and John quickens his steps. Sherlock’s torso is hot against his chest, sending a shiver down his spine. 

The prerogative about being the First Officer and a doctor is that no one objects to him entering the infirmary and handling the equipment, for which John is supremely grateful when he enters with a barely conscious hostage in his arms. 

He gently sets Sherlock down on the bed, glad to put some distance between the warm body and his own. His first priority is to set an IV so he takes what he needs and pushes the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt back until the veins of his armpit are exposed. 

“What are you doing?” Blue eyes follow his hands though their gaze is nowhere near as sharp as John is used to by now.

“You have a fever, you need fluids.”

“You should have someone else do it.” It’s barely more than a whisper but the commanding tone is clear nonetheless.

It makes him look up from where he is disinfecting the pale skin he has uncovered. “Why?”

Sherlock doesn’t specify and John finishes setting the IV. He gently moves to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt further to gain better access with the stethoscope and those blue eyes follow his every move. 

When his fingers brush against the skin of Sherlock’s chest, blue eyes flutter closed and the man shivers. 

John jumps back as if he was burnt, eyes scanning Sherlock’s body for any other symptoms. 

Fever, elevated heart rate and sensitivity to touch… he has seen that before. 

Carefully, he inches closer and focuses on his sense of smell. A deep inhale and the usual odour of the infirmary hits his nose but there is a new smell beneath it all. Spicy-sweet, raw, increasing in intensity and even now, it is tugging at something primal and deep within John. 

His eyes snap open. He didn’t even realise he had closed them. 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide as they undoubtedly see comprehension dawn on John’s features. 

“I will get you a different doctor,” John says and backs away, drawing the curtains around Sherlock’s bed. 

*

The fever takes over Sherlock’s mind soon after he feels the soft infirmary bed underneath him. 

Everything is a blur, people coming and going, but that scent, John’s scent, never leaves entirely. 

“What are you taking?” John’s voice sounds urgent. 

“Metamoxin,” he mumbles and feels more than sees the doctor nod.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, notes the changes in his body as the hormones are washed out of his system and detox takes its course. 

He wakes up with a start; sweat heavy and wet on his skin. He looks around – he isn’t in sickbay anymore, this is a separate room. There are two bags on the IV stand next to him. 

“Sherlock?”

His eyes follow the voice – John is sitting near the door, papers and folders in his lap. He gathers them, advances, is suddenly next to him. 

Sherlock swallows, but his throat remains dry. 

“The worst is behind you, but you still need to rest, alright?”

Sherlock nods, the action draining him as if it took colossal effort. He must have drifted off after that, for when he opens his eyes again, the room is dark and John is gone. 

His brain is less clouded now, the haze of drugs still there though not as strong as before. Pieces of realisation float in and out of his mind. 

He is off the Metamoxin. The Reformists know he is an omega. He will go into heat at some point. 

Sleep comes, but it is restless. 

*

“Before we can discharge you, Captain Watson wanted to speak with you,” the doctor explains as he withdraws the IV line from his aching veins. 

Sherlock nods. He gathered as much. The Reformists want answers and John has come to get them.

“How are you feeling?”

“You’re the doctor, you tell me.”

John raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If you’re being clever, I’m guessing better.”

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Please. I’ve been deducing the staff here all morning. Nurse Jones is sleeping with that Beta doctor.”

“He’s married,” is all John says, surprised though not questioning Sherlock’s findings. 

He snorts in response. “If you’re that naïve, you’re a lot less intelligent than I thought.”

John chuckles before his expression turns earnest. “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the statement, so John goes on. 

“Just that we’re all on the same page: You’re an omega who has been taking Metamoxin to pass as an Alpha. Is that true?”

Sherlock dignifies that with an annoyed sigh and a “yes.”

“How long have you been taking it?”

“Since I was three.”

John looks shocked. “Three?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing?” he asks as scathingly as he is capable of. 

“No, it’s just… taking the meds that young – it’s dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as letting the world know I’m an omega.” He tries to keep the disdain out of his voice, though John’s empathetic look tells him he failed. 

“About that… Your brother knows you’re missing. They are going to make him an offer today. If it goes well, no one will ever learn the truth from us, as far as I’m concerned.”

“It won’t. Mycroft will never negotiate with Reformists.”

“If that’s the case, we will use the knowledge about your status to blackmail him.”

John doesn’t look comfortable with that, Sherlock notes with interest. 

“Won’t make a difference.”

John doesn’t answer. Sherlock opens his mouth, wants to ask for he can’t deduce the answer, yet he can’t actually say the words “Will you kill me if it comes to it?”. It is unthinkable. Sherlock Holmes, killed by petty rebels. 

John, on the other hand, seems to guess what is going through his head. 

“I don’t know what they’ll want to do with you if your brother refuses all our offers. But I promise you, I won’t stand for them killing you.”

Determination is etched in ever line of John’s body, every fibre of the Captain promises sincerity and Sherlock finds himself compelled to believe him. John doesn’t even look surprised at his own confession which is what startles Sherlock the most and does things to him he can’t find the words to express. 

*

John is pacing in the conference room when Mycroft Holmes’ answer reaches them. The soldier who has been tasked to meet with one of Mycroft’s men returns with a clear message: “We don’t negotiate with Reformists.”

Marc groans in frustration, Bhabha sighs, and Irene’s hand comes down hard on the table. John isn’t surprised in the least. Sherlock has been sure enough for the both of them that his brother won’t budge, even if it means giving Sherlock up to rebels. 

The confirmation of how little Mycroft values his brother sends something dark and vicious through John’s body and he has to stifle the urge to punch something, hard. 

“We need to consider when we will launch our next move,” Marc says as he rises. “Do we have any indication when the hostage will go into heat?”

He looks at John expectantly and John would love nothing more than being able to shrug, to say he has no idea, because that would mean he hasn’t noticed how Sherlock’s smell has grown more and more distinct. How the Alpha inside John stirs, primal and raw, tearing down the walls of self-discipline and restraint he has built up so well. 

Instead, he clears his throat. “Soon, I believe.”

“When the first signs appear, we will show Holmes that we know of what he has done to his brother.”

“And you think that will make a difference?” John asks, holding Marc’s stare. 

“He has gone to great lengths to conceal this from the public. If everyone knew his brother was an omega, it would cause great upheaval. People will be angry. He won’t want that.” Irene is standing now, too. 

Bhabha merely nods and John knows his concerns have gone unheard. 

*

“Mycroft declined.” 

It is a fact, not a question and Sherlock goes right back to his supper, expression blank, and John has no clue what the man is feeling. 

“Yes.”

“Surprise.” It sounds bitter. 

John wills Sherlock to eat faster so John can leave faster, get away from the spicy-sweet smell that is drawing him nearer. 

“What is the plan?” Blue eyes are meeting his gaze steadily, no hint of emotion in them. 

John swallows, uncomfortable repeating what Marc explained. 

“Wait until you go into heat, then threaten to reveal the truth should Mycroft not comply.”

Sherlock looks up, stares for a moment, but averts his eyes again. Sherlock’s body is tense, John would say he is scared if “the great Sherlock Holmes” could feel fear, which, John is sure, Sherlock would deny. 

John’s thoughts wander while his hostage finishes the food and with sudden clarity, he realises what could have the world’s only consulting detective worried. 

“Sherlock, is this your first heat?” John asks without thinking, the words out before he can stop them. 

Sherlock freezes, refusing to look up. “I’ve been on Metamoxin since I was three. You have medical training, do the math,” he snaps. 

“We will move you to a special room,” John says after long silence. “You will have your privacy, a bathroom of your own.”

It’s all they can do down here. John knows that there are facilities that are specially equipped to handle omegas who are being weaned off the hormones after a longer period of time. All they can do here is to give them privacy.

Sherlock nods and pushes the plate away. John picks it up immediately, eager to leave, but something makes him linger at the door. 

“It will be fine,” he says on a whim. Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

*

The heat hasn’t really started yet and all Sherlock wants to do is jump out of his skin. 

They moved him before his usual shower – his pheromones have been increasing in intensity during the afternoon hours and Sherlock has seen the effect his smell has on everyone around him. 

He is glad for his own room; it is secure, still locked from the outside but has a real bed, not a mattress on the floor, and a bathroom like John promised. 

John brings him supper again, yet he keeps his distance even more than before. It doesn’t matter – Sherlock can sense the Alpha’s presence nonetheless; can smell his strength; can feel his own body respond with pure want he had never known before. 

He tells himself that his body is merely a vessel, wills the feelings away – in vain. He gulps down the food, pushes the plate away and John is out the room faster than Sherlock would have deemed possible. 

He finds little sleep in his seventh night with the Reformists. 

John returns with breakfast and Sherlock hears him swallow in quick succession. 

“You don’t need to return if this is too difficult for you,” he drawls, something in him wishing for John to stay despite the pheromones in the room. He hates himself for it; it’s biology, that’s all there is to it.

“You’re my responsibility.” The same determination fills John’s eyes as when he promised Sherlock he wouldn’t let the Reformists kill him, and it touches something in Sherlock. 

They don’t talk that day, with the exception of John explaining about the blackmail tape the leaders want to make. An omega comes by his room after supper, which Sherlock refuses to eat because he can’t. All he can think about is that strong urge deep in his stomach, how his body aches for touch. 

Heat hits him in the late afternoon with all its force. He doesn’t dare move on the bed for every bit of friction sends sparks through his body, down his groin, and has him wanting more. 

Shame is burning high in his cheeks when he feels himself lubricating, a bit of slick trickling out of his body and into the fabric of his underwear. He hears the door open and close.

John stands rooted to the spot, plate in hand, but Sherlock can’t smell the food. The only scent filling his nose is _John John John_ , strong, steady, reassuring. 

Sherlock feels blood filling his cock and has enough presence of mind to start breathing through his mouth.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is rough, unusually deep. Sherlock shivers as he realises that John must smell it, his arousal, the way his body responds to the Alpha in the room. 

“Go.”

He hears the door close but a trace of the scent still lingers. 

*

After the omega leaves, apparently satisfied with what he filmed, Sherlock is alone again. His mind is racing, going in a hundred different directions at once though at the same time, nothing registers. 

Sleep comes with hot dreams about strong hands holding him down, pushing into him, soothing the burning inside of him and Sherlock wakes with a start, gripping the sheets and rutting into the mattress. 

He sends John away when he enters in the morning, the little wave of smell enough to ignite Sherlock’s body, make him even harder. His hole is positively dripping now with self-lubrication and every movement makes Sherlock whimper against the sheets. 

Time loses meaning, only John’s return tells him it has to be around noon. 

“Go,” he whispers and it takes every bit of discipline to do it. He isn’t to be ruled by biology. Sherlock Holmes is able to experience his first heat without the help of an Alpha. 

He is stronger than his urges. _Stronger_ , he keeps repeating in his mind, _stronger_.

But it feels like he is burning up from the inside, desire filling every cell of his body, and his hands start shaking from the strain of denying himself release. Deep in the corners of his mind Sherlock knows that he has already lost. 

*

John takes a deep breath before he retrieves the keys to Sherlock’s room. 

His hands are steady but he feels far from it, he isn’t sure he would be able to leave again if Sherlock told him to this time. 

He enters swiftly and opens his mouth to speak but can’t. The spicy-sweet smell envelops him, he wants to dive into it, let it consume him, corrupt him. His cock fills on its own accord, straining against the constraints of his uniform.

“Sherlock?” he tries and hears his voice tremble. He can see the figure on the bed in the dim evening light, sees the man shaking underneath the covers and prays to whatever god that is listening to give him the strength to go, to turn around, to rein in his biology. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes. _John_ , not _go away_. 

His feet carry him into the room against his will. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Please.” 

He moves closer until he can look into those blue eyes, dark with arousal and pure need. John’s fingers itch to touch, wipe away the sweat from Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Please what?” 

He needs Sherlock to say it, needs absolution for his own sanity, at the same time knowing that Sherlock is in no position to consent to anything. John has seen omegas in heat, has smelled their scent, has nursed their wounds after they scratched their skin raw from wanting and not getting because they had refused when they were still able to consent. 

John can see the white knuckles of Sherlock’s hands where they are gripping the sheets so tight they would tear soon. 

The man draws in a shaky breath. “Help me. Touch me.”

“Sherlock, I don’t take advantage, I don’t abuse my status,” he says in a hurry for he feels his resolve crumbling around him, wondering _Why am I here, then?_ Why did he keep coming to Sherlock’s room, fully aware of the heat cycle approaching? 

“Please.” 

It’s barely audible but Sherlock shifts slightly, blue eyes begging, body straining up against the blanket, cheeks flushed. His dark curls are damp from sweat. 

The sight, the single word Sherlock whispered is John’s undoing. He realises he has been fighting his biology these past hours, losing every time he even stepped into Sherlock’s room but still strong enough to leave. Sherlock’s “Please” renders it all mute and John gives in, has probably given in the moment he realised Sherlock was an omega without wanting to admit to it. 

He reaches out to caress Sherlock’s cheek and the man leans into his touch, mouthing at his thumb. 

John steps closer, hand running down Sherlock’s body and eliciting a deep moan which turns into a whimper when he cups Sherlock’s leaking cock through his pants. 

John captures Sherlock’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss, hot and urgent, intoxicating and before he knows it, he has climbed into the bed and is tearing at the shirt buttons. Underneath is pale skin, so inviting, and he licks at Sherlock’s collarbone, making him moan and cling to him like he is his reason to breathe. 

He pushes his shirt over slim shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. It is too hot suddenly, so he removes his own shirt as well and presses down. Skin meets skin and Sherlock shivers against him, a keening sound leaving his lips. 

John lets his hands roam across strong muscle that quivers under his touch, exploring hurriedly before his fingers find their way to Sherlock’s fly. 

He pulls both trousers and pants down in one swift motion that has Sherlock crying out loudly, back arching off the mattress. 

The sight of his bare cock, fully erect and glistening with precome makes John’s mouth water. 

He shuffles on the bed and takes Sherlock down in one movement. 

“Fuck!” Sherlock cries out and John bites back any sexual innuendo in favour of taking Sherlock deeper, sucking hard and swallowing around the leaking head. 

It only takes a few strokes of his tongue and Sherlock finds release, bittersweet down John’s throat. The taste leaves him dizzy as he shuffles back up, sliding one arm behind Sherlock’s back and cradling his head against his chest. 

They fit together perfectly. 

His own cock twitches inside his trousers, but John knows that Sherlock won’t take long to recover. Usual heats are vicious, but with an omega that has supressed for so long? John can only imagine. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs against his chest. 

“I’m here.”

He lifts his head to look into John’s eyes. 

“I believe I need you to fuck me,” Sherlock says, traces of the clear analytical detective still there but clouded by heat, and every cell in John’s body screams in agreement. 

“I will if you want me to.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes as he takes John’s hand that is resting on his waist and guides it downward, sliding it between his cheeks and John’s breath hitches when he feels the wetness there. 

Experimentally, he presses a finger into the heat and Sherlock groans wantonly, pushing back, so John quickly adds a second finger and pushes deeper into the seductive, tight heat. 

Sherlock starts moving, rutting against John’s hip and he can feel Sherlock getting hard again as he fucks himself on John’s fingers. 

A third finger has him panting, a fourth drives him insane. 

“Please, John, do it, fuck me, hold me down, I need it, can’t think about anything else, please…” Sherlock whispers between moans and cries and the Alpha in John takes over completely. 

He withdraws his hand sharply and turns Sherlock around with more force than necessary. His shoes, socks, trousers and pants hit the floor and the air is a welcome sensation against his painfully hard cock. 

He uses both arms to draw Sherlock up so he is resting on arms and knees. He gives Sherlock’s leaking cock a few strokes until the man is grinding back against John’s groin and it becomes too much. 

He draws Sherlock’s cheeks apart with a steady hand and exposes the dripping hole. 

“Please,” Sherlock all but begs and that is it – John pushes in without remorse, in one motion, hard and fast, and the man underneath him cries out in pain and pleasure. 

Sherlock is tighter than he ever imagined and oh so responsive. John draws back slowly, agonisingly slowly and enters Sherlock at the same pace. Sherlock shivers around his cock and John increases his rhythm, gripping Sherlock’s hips tight enough to bruise and the thought of lasting marks drive John halfway out of his mind.

He bends forward and sucks hard on Sherlock’s shoulder, soon biting down, growling when he feels Sherlock’s hips stutter and hears him cry out as he spills hot semen across the mattress. 

John doesn’t stop but keeps pounding into Sherlock, slower than before, fucking him through the aftershocks, fucking him until he can feel Sherlock’s cock stir and fill again. 

Obscene noises leave Sherlock, sprawled out beneath John, and all he can think is _mine, mine, mine_ when his hands move to Sherlock’s shoulders and press down, hard. 

Sherlock whimpers and goes wild under him, grinding back against him, meeting every trust until John hits his prostate. 

“John!” he shouts straining upwards but hands hold him down and the power John feels surging through his veins almost sends him over the edge. 

His hands draw back and hold onto Sherlock’s hips, pulling him up. John leans back until he is resting on his heels and he pulls Sherlock’s lithe body against his chest, his hips never ceasing their movements. 

Sherlock groans deep when John’s cock hits his prostate again and his head rolls back, resting on John’s shoulder, exposing his neck. 

It’s an invitation and John takes it, licking, biting, sucking until Sherlock is squirming, breath coming in spurts, and John moves one hand to Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock’s fingernails dig deep into John’s thighs and the pain finally vanquishes the last of John’s restraint. He feels his knot filling, growing, and Sherlock notices it too when he slides down John’s cock again. 

John stills for a moment and lets Sherlock simply feel his knot as it tries to breach the sphincter. He is rewarded with a full-body shiver. 

“Do you want it?” he asks because even in this state, John would not knot an omega without consent. As far as one could speak of consent in this situation, a voice in John’s head whispers.

Sherlock growls deep inside his chest and pushes down, intention clear, and the friction against his knot is enough to make John moan and bite down hard on Sherlock’s skin. 

He lifts Sherlock up once more, arms tight around his torso, and when Sherlock sinks down, John shifts his hips until he can feel his knot entering Sherlock, stretching him almost beyond capacity. 

John shudders as the sensation runs through his body and he gives them both time to adjust before he pushes Sherlock forward, once more positioning him on his knees and arms. 

His rhythm is merciless, forceful, brutal even as he rams into Sherlock until all of him is buried inside. Sherlock wines and John can sense the heat pooling in his stomach. One hand grips Sherlock’s cock tight, he matches his strokes to the rhythm of his hips and then, Sherlock arches his back and pushes back, coming in hot spurts, John’s name on his lips. 

With Sherlock convulsing around his cock and his knot, the orgasm rips through John with enough force that he sees stars behind his eyelids and he blacks out for a second before he collapses on Sherlock. 

His first coherent thought is that he has to move if he doesn’t want to suffocate Sherlock, so he shuffles until they are lying on their sides, John still buried inside Sherlock, whose back is pressed against his chest. 

The second thing that registers is that their scents have mixed and for a second, John feels blind panic considering what that might entail before he forces himself to calm down and think about it later. 

All that matters right now is Sherlock, whose hand covers John’s as he holds it tight against his chest. 

John can feel the heart beating underneath, relieved that it is slowing down. Sherlock isn’t trembling anymore but breathing evenly, drifting off into the realm of sleep where John gladly follows. 

*

It is still dark in the room when John wakes again. They shifted during sleep, Sherlock is lying across his chest, drawing circles with his fingers. 

“Sherlock?” he asks tentatively. 

Blue eyes meet his and John is glad that they are clearer now, still filled with desire but not glazed anymore. He feels Sherlock’s erection press against his thigh and blood starts rushing into his groin. 

“Better?”

Sherlock nods. “But I’m still burning,” he adds, voice tight as if he had expected the heat to be over by now. 

“That’s normal. It will take a little longer to pass.”

Sherlock groans in frustration, burying his head in the crook of John’s neck, and John thinks he understands. 

“Just a vessel, right?” 

Sherlock dignifies this with a nod and a strangled sound. 

John’s left hand caresses the pale skin over Sherlock’s shoulder blades for a while until the man lifts his head and meets his eyes again. 

“What do you want?” A part of him hopes that even though his mind is clearer now, Sherlock will still choose him for this. 

Sherlock shivers and swallows hard. John follows the movement of his throat with his eyes. 

“I need you to fuck me again.” 

John’s heart flutters in his chest and he shifts on the bed, facing Sherlock. His hands stroke up and down Sherlock’s sides until he feels goosebumps cover the skin. He shifts until he covers Sherlock with his body and rolls his hips against the man beneath. 

A faint moan escapes Sherlock and he arches his back, wrapping his feet around John’s hips, pressing him closer. 

“Pushy,” John chides in amusement. 

“Take me already,” Sherlock commands and it would have worked if he hadn’t whispered it, breathless and needy. 

Without the heat motivating him, Sherlock must be one bloody cocky bottom, John muses but quickly derails that train of thought. 

He has no guarantee that they will share a bed when the heat is over. 

Perhaps that’s what spurs him into action, nudging Sherlock’s legs apart and settling between them. Sherlock’s cock is leaking precome onto the skin of his stomach and John buries his nose into the dark curls in Sherlock’s groin, drinking in the smell of sex and lust and spicy-sweet slick already pooling below. 

With one swift motion John flips Sherlock over, noises of protest muffled by the pillow and then his tongue is on Sherlock’s back, cool and wet against the still hot skin. 

Sherlock shivers, throws his head back in a silent moan which turns feral when John cups his cheeks and pulls them apart, tongue sliding closer until he reaches the cleft of his arse and the man beneath him stills in anticipation.

It occurs to John that no one ever did this to Sherlock before, a thought which makes him tighten his grip and slide his tongue lower until he can feel the hole. The slick tastes like Sherlock, spicy-sweet, and it will hunt John in his dreams, he knows it even now as he circles the ring and breeches it, dipping his tongue inside. 

Sherlock is keening, squirming against the mattress, and John swirls his tongue, drawing back and pushing in in a steady rhythm that has the other man whining with pleasure. John pushes and pushes until he can kiss the ring and suck tentatively, but the sensation is enough to have Sherlock arching his back and crying out, loud and animalistic, in pure need. 

John loses himself in the smell, the taste of Sherlock on his tongue. He pulls Sherlock’s hips up a little, winds his hands around the body and touches Sherlock’s pulsing cock, works him in time with his tongue until he feels the muscles contract around it and Sherlock is coming hot over his fist. 

John drapes himself over the omega, possessive instincts taking over, a voice in his head chanting _mine, mine, mine_ , and he sucks a love bite onto Sherlock’s shoulder, stroking the purple bruises on his hip with deep satisfaction. 

It doesn’t take long before Sherlock stirs again, turning and rolling on top of John who can do nothing but gaze up into blue eyes. 

Sherlock’s hands skate across his chest, arms, stomach, touch the drop of fluid at the tip of John’s cock in wide-eyed fascination. 

Sherlock’s eyes glaze over before focussing on his cock again and it is the only warning John receives before warm lips close around the tip and a tongue licks at the glans. Sherlock slides his tongue across the slit and down along the shaft as he swallows as much as he can take, starting to move and suck. John fights to keep his eyes open because the image of Sherlock’s cheeks hollowing and his cock buried inside that mouth sends waves of pleasure through his body. 

The hand that is not working his shaft dips down until it massages John’s balls. He moans as his hips snap up, hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat accidentally and John is about to apologise when he notices that Sherlock’s pupils are even more dilated than before and firm hands push his hips forward, urging his cock into Sherlock’s mouth. 

John’s brain short-circuits for a moment at the implication, but then he buries his hands in those black curls and fucks up into the tight heat of Sherlock’s mouth, noticing the tears in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes but the content humming noises tell him it’s alright. 

One particularly deep push has John crying out Sherlock’s name and he pulls the man off before it’s over way too soon. Sherlock slides up his body, salvia and precome leaving traces on pale skin, and then his mouth is on John’s and he can taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue as they devour each other. 

His hands find Sherlock’s hips and lift them up until the omega catches on. He can see Sherlock’s thighs quiver as he grips his cock and aligns himself, nodding at Sherlock who sinks down slowly, taking him inch by inch, moaning above him. 

“Ride me,” John orders, and sees blue eyes roll back inside Sherlock’s head before he does as commanded, moving in a steady rhythm. 

He wants to stay like this forever, buried deep inside that heat, breathing in Sherlock’s scent. 

Sherlock shouts when he finally hits his prostate and John grips his hips to support him, making it easier to find that spot again and again. John is mesmerised by Sherlock’s face, screwed up in pleasure, so expressive, so human. 

He can feel that he is getting close so he fists Sherlock’s cock, thumb spreading the fluid leaking from the tip, and the omega loses his rhythm as his hips stutter. 

John sits up swiftly, presses Sherlock flush against his chest and ruts up against him, cants his hips until he finds that spot and Sherlock clings on so tightly that John thinks he will have bruises for a week, but he doesn’t care. 

His knot fills and the next time Sherlock slams down, John pushes hard, holding the omega down, knot breaching the wet hole easily this time. Sherlock’s eyes fly open and they find John’s before Sherlock leans in and presses their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss. It’s messy with too much teeth because John is pushing into Sherlock again and again, pressing him against his chest so Sherlock’s cock is enveloped by their bodies, but it’s perfect nonetheless. 

Sherlock bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he comes with a shout and it only takes John a few more pushes before he fills Sherlock up deep inside of him, the knot trapping his release. 

John shuffles back until he hits the head board, Sherlock a dead weight against his chest but a welcome one. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead tenderly, rubs soothing circles across his back and waits for him to return from the high. 

*

It is late afternoon as Sherlock’s eyes are finally clear of the heat when he opens them. 

John has lost count of how many times he was inside Sherlock in the past hours, of how often his mouth mapped the pale skin, of how often he held the omega down with brute force and claimed him with hard thrusts. 

They look at each other for a long time and John is almost sad the heat has passed, that those blue eyes are as piercing as before. 

“We should clean up,” he suggests and Sherlock straightens immediately, disappearing into the bathroom without another word. John climbs off the bed, considers the stained sheets and for the first time notices the smell in the room. 

He opens a window with his authorisation code and changes the sheets. By the time he is finished, Sherlock is still in the bathroom, so John opens a cabinet to retrieve fluffy pants and a soft shirt which he leaves on the chair inside the bathroom. 

Steam is rising above the curtain and the urge to simply step inside as well is overwhelming, _but the heat is over_ , John reminds himself. Sherlock isn’t an omega in heat in need of release anymore, he is their hostage, and even though he consented in a moment of desperation, that doesn’t give John the right to assume there is any kind of connection between them. 

He knows of bonds, and their mixed scents make his heart beat faster and the Alpha inside him growl possessively, yet he supresses every implication and every possible reaction. 

A piece of paper at the bottom of the door catches his attention. He muses someone must have pushed it through the slit above the floor when they noticed he was gone. 

John really isn’t looking forward to his next meeting with the Triumvirate or the Council for that matter. 

The note is brief, telling him to report to Adler, Bhabha, and Thoreau as soon as the hostage’s heat has passed. 

John is gathering his clothes when Sherlock steps out of the bathroom, curls damp, smelling like soap and water, the shirt lose around his body. 

John passes him by with a nod and is soon immersed in hot water, scrubbing away Sherlock’s scent with a heavy heart. 

Once he is dried off and dressed he returns to the room to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, looking at his bare feet. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Sherlock looks up and merely nods. 

“I’m sure even you are hungry now, so I’ll have someone bring you food and plenty of tea.”

He catches the smile that skitters across Sherlock’s expression. 

“I’ll see what I can do to have you stay here for a little while longer.”

Another nod. John wishes that Sherlock would say something, anything, to reassure him that things are alright between them. 

Sherlock clears his throat when his hand is on the keypad next to the lock, so John turns. 

Sherlock’s eyes are soft as they meet his. 

“I just…” He swallows nervously and John can’t believe that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, omega in heat and a post-heat Sherlock Holmes are the same person. “It was very considerate of you to help me.”

It is probably as near to an actual thank you that Sherlock allows himself to get; the thought makes John smile. 

“You’re welcome.”

They share one last look and then John leaves the room. 

His first action is to down what feels like a gallon of water, then he switches on the stove and cooks, brews tea and instructs two of his soldiers patrolling the hall to take the food, water and tea to Sherlock’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There goeth the porn :) Any particularities about A/B/O-physiology are due to the fact that I'm no expert... I did my research but I ended up writing it the way it suited the story and the characters, just fyi. 
> 
> Thanks for all the amazing comments, kudos and bookmarks for chapter 1 :) I hope this lives up to your expectations. And no worries, the plot will return....
> 
> EDIT 11-16-2013: For future references, in my verse, omegas are self-lubricating even outside the heat (when aroused). Just to avoid confusion^^


	3. Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faces the Triumvirate after Sherlock’s first heat while Mycroft remains quiet regarding his brother’s kidnapping. The successful revolution in France, however, ignites the powder keg that is London…

They hardly dare to meet his eyes and he wonders belatedly if that is because of his scent, strong despite the shower, telling everyone who can smell how strong an Alpha he is. 

He returns to his room for a masking perfume he wears most days before he finally makes his way to the conference room where he will hopefully find both their leaders and information on recent developments. 

When he enters, three pairs of eyes shoot in his direction, nostrils flaring ever so subtly. The atmosphere is so thick John is sure they have been arguing. 

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Marc drawls. 

“Care to explain why you spent the past twenty-four hours with our heat-ridden hostage?” Irene is in full-on Alpha mode, glaring at him. 

“I was obeying orders. I was in charge of his well-being -“

“Since when does mating qualify as taking care of a hostage?” 

“You know as well as I do what could happen to an omega who’s been supressing for so long if he has to suffer through his first heat alone! Don’t tell me you wanted him to die!” 

Marc falls silent. John turns to Bhabha, the only one in this room whose opinion truly matters to John. 

The Omega considers him for a long moment. “Did he consent?”

“Yes. I made sure.” 

Bhabha nods, the gesture indicating the matter is to be dropped. Thoreau huffs and throws himself back into his chair. 

“Any news from Mycroft Holmes?” John dares, although he fears he already knows the answer. 

“His answer remains unchanged,” Bhabha explains gravely. 

“That is why we need to take drastic measures to show him we’re serious.“

“We’re not torturing an innocent -“

“We’ve already abducted him, Bhabha.“

“If you follow that logic, why not kill him immediately?”

“Enough!” Irene glares at the men. “The way I see it, we need to step up our game if we want to force Mycroft Holmes’s hand. I must concede that torture seems a good option -“

“As is going public. Telling everyone how Holmes forced his own brother to change his nature to maintain his reputation is bound to have an impact.” Bhabha visibly forces his voice to sound calm. 

“And what then? We’ll keep his brother as a pet?”

“Well, I’m sure our Captain would like that,” Mark sneers and John feels the sudden urge to punch him. 

Instead, he says diplomatically, “Isn’t this a matter for the council?”

They agree, though reluctantly, and John is allowed to leave. Stepping outside, he collides with a civilian and almost sends them both crashing to the floor. 

“I’m so sorry,” the man stutters, then hurries off in the direction of the common rooms. John has seen him around before, though the fact that he can’t remember his name proves how exhausted he really is. Rick? Richard? Richard B-something, he guesses. 

He makes his way to sickbay, wanting to inform Sherlock of recent developments before he will collapse on his bed. 

Sherlock looks up from where he is sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching a cup of tea. The open window has removed most of the smell but there is still a faint whiff of that spicy-sweet scent in the air that will haut John in his dreams for nights to come. 

“You okay?” A brief nod. “I just wanted to give you an update. Mycroft declined.”

Sherlock looks unimpressed and sips his tea. John muses it is to safe him from having to ask the question. 

“It’s not been decided what will happen next. Thoreau wants to torture you and send your brother a tape, Bhabha wants to go public with your status. The council convenes tomorrow morning to decide.”

Sherlock still doesn’t say anything and John almost reaches out to caress his cheek – but when did he get close enough to touch? 

His feet must have carried him to Sherlock’s side on their own accord. 

This close, the scent is stronger and it takes all of his self-control to stop himself from inhaling deeply. The expression on Sherlock’s face in unreadable, his eyes piercing but detached. 

“Have a good night,” John says and turns too abruptly. Sherlock probably knows every thought going through his head, can read him like a book with his powers of deduction, so he doesn’t even wait for a reply before he leaves the room and returns to his own, where he climbs into bed, alone.

* 

The next day, everything goes to hell. 

Lubitsch wakes him at six in the morning and urges him to follow him to the council chambers. In a haze, John learns that someone leaked Sherlock’s abduction to the press, including details about his omega status and how the Reformists were toying with the idea of torturing him. 

“We have a mole,” Irene declares, eyes darting around the room. “We need to find the person responsible.”

John does his best but to no avail. He is reporting back to Adler, Thoreau and Bhabha when Ghandi storms in, shouting “Turn on the TV!”

Mycroft Holmes is giving an interview, responding to the news about his brother. John hears “We’re not negotiating with terrorists” again, followed by “We are forced into action to protect the Empire”, and then it is chaos. 

They are sure Mycroft will push for new laws, stripping even more people off their rights, and Ghandi tells them about rumours that the Revolutionists in France are planning to launch an attack, and for once all three leaders agree. 

“We need to be prepared,” Thoreau urges and the others nod. 

“Captain, organise the troops,” Bhabha orders him and John is off, preparing the Reformists’ forces for a civil war that might start within the next few days. 

The news of a novel law, declaring all who sympathise with the Reformists - no matter their status - an enemy of the Empire and fit for severe punishment, reach John an hour after the law has been passed. 

It is almost ten at night when he has enough room to breathe and hear his stomach growl. 

Oh no. Sherlock. 

“Captain, you need to take a break,” Lubitsch comments next to him. “I can finish these plans, you need to rest and eat.”

John nods gratefully, already on his way to the canteen where he picks up a few sandwiches and water, then hurries to sickbay. 

Sherlock is pacing when he enters, something close to worry etched on his features. 

“I’m sorry,” John says, setting the food down on the bed. “I should have come sooner.”

“It’s alright. As you know I require little food.” 

It makes John smile for the first time that day. 

“Still, it’s not healthy. Dig in.” 

He leads by example, grabs a sandwich and relaxes into the chair. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and wonders how much Sherlock knows without anyone telling him. 

They eat in silence, but when he is finished, John rises again. Sitting makes him feel exhausted, makes him slow, but he needs to focus now, which is hard when Sherlock’s scent is becoming harder and harder to ignore. 

“You’re tense, agitated, haven’t eaten all day. I’ve heard people running around outside. Something’s happened.” 

John stops pacing for a moment, takes a deep breath. 

“We have a mole. They leaked the story about your abduction to the press.”

Blue eyes narrow. “Yes, I see it now. Everyone knows, and my brother still won’t negotiate. This gives him the perfect opportunity to push for new laws, which he probably already succeeded in, judging by how worn out you are. You’re preparing for civil war.”

Sherlock sounds almost bored, voice monotone, void of surprise or fear of what is to come. 

“How can you be so - so cold about that?” John explodes. 

“History is repeating itself,” is all Sherlock says. His eyes are still on John, who grows even more restless under the gaze. 

“There are lives at stake! People’s lives! There’re rumours about the Revolutionists launching an attack in France, can you imagine what that will do to London?”

“It will be the last spark necessary to ignite a civil war, I suppose.”

John stares, dumbstruck by Sherlock’s complete lack of care. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock snaps, standing up. “It’s all just petty politics. It doesn’t matter if they call it democracy or Empire or federation. There will always be those who rule and those who are ruled. Everything else is just semantics.”

“You can’t believe that. Sherlock, you’re an omega, you’ve suffered your entire life because your brother supports a system that makes people believe omegas are worth nothing! Don’t tell me you don’t care if we can make this country a better place!”

“The chances you’ll succeed are slim.”

“With an attitude like that, definitely.” 

They stare at each other, blue eyes piercing his and suddenly, John feels exposed, as though the eyes could see right into his soul. 

Sherlock sighs, expression full of realization. 

“You’re scared.” John feels his shoulders tense. “But why …” 

Sherlock steps closer and brings a wave of spicy-sweetness with him. John wants to drown himself in it, forget the impending civil war, forget that he is the First Officer, responsible for so many lives. 

“Oh.” 

Just like that, Sherlock knows exactly what he is afraid of. John can see it in his eyes, they have gone soft, understanding, not empathising but not judging either. 

“Yes. Oh.”

John takes a few steps back, gathers the empty plate and his water bottle and leaves. 

He has a war to prepare for. 

*

Tension lies thick over the HQ the next day. John doesn’t forget Sherlock’s meals this time, but delegates breakfast, lunch, and supper to others because he is too busy. 

Ghandi cheers triumphantly around noon, shouting about “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!” and how the French have started their attempt to overthrow their government. 

John doesn’t hear how it ends, though, too immersed is he in preparations. He notes how thrilled Thoreau seems at the prospect of civil war, but then again, he has always had an eager trigger finger. 

Bhabha accepts their fate reluctantly and John can see the fear in his eyes. A lot of people will die, especially omegas. Adler is hardly around, helping other chapters set up their defences with Lubitsch and Wilder. 

John runs on too little sleep and too little food but still visits Sherlock when he is done for the day. He doesn’t have to, he knows he has been given food, but something in him yearns to smell the scent of him, if only for a little while. 

When he enters, Sherlock is crouched over something on the floor. 

“What are you doing?”

“An experiment.”

“Uh-huh. Care to specify?”

Sherlock looks up and puts down what seems to be a glass full of water. 

“I’ve only lived as an omega for a few days. I’m conducting tests.”

“Fair enough. As long as you’re not trying to blow anything up.”

“I’m not.”

Sherlock sits back on his heels, looking up at him and suddenly, John is very much aware how close he is standing, that Sherlock could easily extend a hand and open John’s fly –

He takes a step back. The moment is broken but the air is still tense around them. 

“There’s a revolution in France. Mycroft is hunting down sympathisers. I don’t have more news.”

He wishes that Sherlock would just look back down at his experiment so John could open the door and disappear again. His exhausted brain consumes every bit of the spicy-sweet air and he can feel something stir inside him at the sight of Sherlock, eyes still on him, sitting back on his heels. 

The blue eyes leave his, but not to return to the experiment. Instead, they wander down his body, taking in the creases in his uniform shirt, and come to rest on his fly. Sherlock’s mouth is slightly open, invitingly so. 

Sherlock’s gaze refocuses on his face, expression pained and almost ashamed. That is when it hits John, a wave of Sherlock’s intense smell. He can almost smell the slick dripping out of Sherlock, can definitely smell his interest, and his own blood rushes south. 

“Sherlock…” he begins, trying to make sense of the situation. 

“I can’t stop it,” he grinds out, pushing himself up from the floor. “I can’t stop these thoughts, it’s torture. My mind never stops and now there’s even more in it.”

Sherlock is frustrated, confused, and John can’t help that he thinks it is adorable. Sherlock has never learned to cope with his biology, to control his urges like John did. The pills did that for Sherlock and now he is at his body’s mercy, which of course, upon the arrival of an Alpha, has taken interest, has started self-lubricating in anticipation of what might be to come.

“You will learn to cope,” John reassures him. His feet want to step towards Sherlock, his hands itch, but he remains where he is, a few feet away. 

It is Sherlock who draws closer, gradually, his steps indecisive at first, then firm as they close the distance between them. Sherlock is in his personal space, his scent filling up John’s nose, pale skin mere inches away. 

John’s hand starts to shake from the effort of not touching and Sherlock notices, long fingers coming up to stroke up and down John’s biceps through the fabric of his uniform. He is one second away from flinging himself at Sherlock, explicit consent be damned, ripping off all his clothes and taking him right here on the floor. 

John closes his eyes, wills the image away. He jerks when he feels fingers against his lips, eyes fluttering open. Sherlock is even closer now, pupils wide enough to almost swallowing the blue entirely. 

“Please, John.” 

Sherlock’s voice quivers a bit, his eyes granting John permission to take it, take it all and within a second John is on him, spinning him around and pushing Sherlock against the nearest wall. 

John presses close until they are touching each other from thighs to chest, and Sherlock gasps, mouth opening slightly in invitation. 

John pins Sherlock’s wrists against the wall as he loses himself in the heat of his mouth, sucking on Sherlock’s tongue. A roll of his hips against Sherlock’s has the omega moaning into their kiss, hips buckling for friction and John complies, pushes forward hard and fierce. 

“Don’t move,” he growls, and then his hands are at the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, almost ripping it open. He wriggles it off Sherlock’s arms and throws it to the floor before pinning his wrists against the wall again, reminding him to keep them there before his hands leave his wrists again. It takes all of two seconds until Sherlock’s trousers follow and John frees his cock, leaking already. Sherlock whines when he gives him a few strokes, his hands moving away from the wall and grabbing at John’s shirt. 

“I said don’t move,” he commands and slams Sherlock’s wrists back against the wall, pinning them with his left hand while his right opens his shirt and then his fly. He toes off his shoes, socks and trousers, air hitting his erection. 

“Hold onto me,” he orders and Sherlock complies without hesitation. His obedience sends a shiver down John’s spine before he takes a hold of Sherlock’s thighs and hauls him up. Instinctively, Sherlock winds his feet around John’s waist as he presses Sherlock’s back hard against the wall. 

It takes a little bit of fumbling but then John drags the head of his cock over Sherlock’s hole, making the omega jerk. John can feel he is wet and ready as two of his fingers enter the tight heat, stretching Sherlock as fast as he can. 

Sherlock’s head falls onto John’s shoulder with a moan as he adds another finger, then hastily takes himself in hand, aligns and pushes in, antagonisingly slowly. Sherlock whimpers at every inch, desperate little sounds that make John’s head spin. 

When he is buried deep he lets Sherlock adjust for a moment before he begins to move, hands at Sherlock’s hips, guiding them up and down. 

He can feel Sherlock’s fingernails digging into his back, and he speeds up, pounding into Sherlock who arches his back and rubs his cock against John’s stomach. 

When the strain in his thigh muscles becomes too intense, John’s arms support Sherlock as he lifts him from the wall and lays him down onto the floor. Sherlock looks up at him, eyes dark, clouded with arousal and want and lust and John sets a brutal rhythm that has Sherlock shouting and screaming because John hits his prostate at every thrust. He balances himself on one hand, the other curling around Sherlock’s cock, not moving. 

Sherlock gets the drift and he fucks up into John’s hand while John is thrusting deep and fast, mouth at Sherlock’s collarbone, licking and sucking and biting. 

John sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder, deep enough to draw blood, and Sherlock’s crying out, back arching off the floor as his orgasm washes through him.

John raises a come-covered finger to Sherlock’s mouth, which opens and takes the finger in, licking it clean. John grunts, loses his rhythm briefly, but then Sherlock’s eyes are open and he grabs John’s wrist and labs at the other fingers, tasting himself on John’s skin and John loses it. He feels his knot swelling and buries himself deep inside Sherlock, coming with a shout. 

He collapses on top of Sherlock’s lean form and has enough presence of mind to roll them over. It should be awkward because Sherlock is a little taller than him but he fits perfectly into John’s side, knot still in place inside him. 

It takes a while until John comes down from his high and opens his eyes. He finds Sherlock staring at him, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“What?” he rasps, curious what kind of revelation Sherlock got from their actions. 

“You can make it stop.”

“Your mind?” 

Sherlock nods and lies down again, fingers tracing patterns on John’s chest muscles. 

“How long?” he asks, intrigued. 

“I’m thinking again.” 

John doesn’t know what to make of that, so he doesn’t comment, simply lies there on the floor, aware of the come sticking between Sherlock’s body and his, but they won’t be able to move until John’s knot goes down. 

He watches Sherlock, whose eyes are tracing the movement of his fingers, but he seems far away, deep in thought. John wonders what it is like inside Sherlock’s head, constantly deducing. Being held hostage must be torture for him. 

To think that Sherlock would have ended up as a slave if he hadn’t had Mycroft Holmes as a brother is unbearable. This brilliant, amazing man being nothing more than someone’s servant or companion in the bedroom is something John can’t imagine. 

All the more reason to fight for their cause. 

“John?”

The question pulls him back to reality. 

“Will you come back tomorrow?” 

It occurs to John that it might be nothing more than an experiment for Sherlock, testing his newly found inclination, that he doesn’t care that it is John and not any other Alpha, but he smiles and says, “Of course” anyway. 

After John pulls out, they both go to the bathroom together to clean up and Sherlock returns to his experiment without another word. 

John stands at the door, watching him for another moment before he leaves again.

*

News of France hit HQ around breakfast time. The government has fallen; the Revolutionists have declared a new, temporary government and plan on holding elections soon. Democracy prevails, close to the heart of the Empire. 

Mike is excited when he tells John about how his students are secretly organising and arming themselves. 

“The young are ready, John,” he cheers. “The Empire will fall.”

John fakes a smile because he doesn’t want to dampen Mike’s mood with straight facts about how the SAS is better equipped than their own forces, how the Reformists are at a strategic disadvantage. 

John hurries back to HQ, eager to leave London above ground level for the atmosphere is ripe with tension. It is a powder keg that could explode at any second. 

He spends the afternoon getting everything in order and in the end, he is almost satisfied. They are as ready as they will ever be. 

Civil war can come. 

*

Sherlock takes charge that night and John is happy to let him. He takes his time, exploring John’s body, mapping out every inch of him and eventually riding him leisurely. 

John marvels at the sight of the man, sweat glistening on his skin in the dim light from the nightstand. Sherlock’s eyes are clear, concentrated almost, as he rotates his hips and discovers everything that has John buckling up, moaning and shouting, slowing down when he notices John is getting close and starting all over again. 

He slides off but shuffles back quickly, lapping at John’s cock still slick from entering Sherlock and the sight takes the breath out of his lungs for a moment. 

“I want to feel it,” Sherlock murmurs against the head. “Can I?”

“My knot?” 

Sherlock hums eagerly, mouth already swallowing John down again. 

“Keep going,” he instructs and Sherlock does, hollows his cheeks as he sucks, drags the tip of his tongue along the shaft, hands massaging his balls. 

John focuses on the tight heat, the heavenly pressure of Sherlock’s tongue, feels his knot filling and Sherlock gasping around him as he notices. 

He pulls off but continues fisting John’s cock with one hand while his tongue licks experimentally at the blood-filled knot. John feels a spark of electricity jerk through his body, again and again as Sherlock laps at it, sucking and teasing until John thinks he is going to pass out from sensory overload. It is when Sherlock takes him in his mouth again, so deep that he can feel the back of Sherlock’s throat and those lips close around his knot that it is all too much.

He shoots harder than he ever has before, white flashing before his eyes. 

Sherlock never pulls off, drinking it all down while he is touching himself with hard, quick strokes. It doesn’t take long and he comes all over John’s hips, thighs and part of his stomach and John almost protests before Sherlock leans forward and licks him clean, blue eyes meeting his, an evil glint in them. 

John doesn’t expect Sherlock draping himself across his chest, not without the knot binding them together, but Sherlock does it anyway, a content smile on his lips. 

He wants to ask if he found out what he wanted to know from this experience but chooses not to in favour of caressing the soft skin of Sherlock’s shoulders. 

Tomorrow they will be at war, so he may as well indulge. 

*

In the end, it is the students who ignite the powder keg, marching to City Hall and declaring revolution. 

It is half-planned, half-spontaneous but John and his soldiers are ready, armed, and uniformed, marching with the students. 

Several lose their lives that day on both sides, but John carries out his mission as swiftly as possible, taking his best men with him inside City Hall, taking out guards with real bullets this time. 

They are operating in the basement and hardly meet any resistance as they place the explosives where they will do most damage. 

It is more symbolic than anything; neither John nor anyone else is naïve enough to believe that Mycroft Holmes or any of his colleagues are still in the building. Still, it is a pretty sight when it blows up, showering the heart of the Empire in black smoke and steel. 

John returns with his team to HQ after that. There is going to be a long fight ahead, yet he is carefully optimistic. 

A lot of civilians have joined them, barely armed but full of ideals, Betas, omegas and even Alphas fighting side by side against the ancient system of slavery. 

He makes a bit of time to gather food and takes the plates to Sherlock’s room. He can see several people shooting him glances, some judging, some appreciative, yet he ignores them all. 

“Well, if you have time to cook, I take it you have overthrown the government already,” Sherlock comments when he enters. 

“A cold sandwich hardly qualifies as cooking,” John replies with a startled laugh. “And no. City Hall is nothing but steel now yet it won’t hold your brother back for long. This is the calm before the storm.”

Sherlock nods and accepts the plate. 

They eat in silence, John’s thoughts wandering what will happen to Sherlock and if he shouldn’t simply release him. They can’t keep him here forever. 

“So what happens tomorrow?” The omega is watching him closely and John knows any attempt at schooling his expression is a lost cause. 

“I honestly don’t know. We fight, I guess. Try to win.”

“When will you have won?”

“When we have Mycroft in custody.” He doesn’t have to give the alternatives – when we have shot Mycroft – because he knows Sherlock is aware enough of the hard reality of civil war. 

John can’t promise he will spare Sherlock’s brother, not when his finger itches to pull the trigger on a man who forced his own flesh and blood into an existence he never wanted. 

Sherlock’s finger brushes against the cut on his cheek, left by a passing bullet for all he knows. 

John can see the man swallowing, jaw working, trying to figure out whether he should say something or not. 

He keeps quiet, in the end. None of them says a word as they undress each other, but their kisses have a new edge to them and for the moment John lets himself believe that Sherlock will miss him when the morning comes and God knows what happens. 

The illusion is complete when Sherlock, head resting against John’s chest, their bodies locked together, says without looking up: “Stay.”

*

They don’t talk the next morning. John takes a quick shower and puts his uniform back on. 

He holds Sherlock’s gaze one last time before he opens the door and goes to retrieve his gun and enough ammunition to last him a week.

*

Only – there’s a flaw in the plan. The Reformists aren’t seeking the battle; the battle comes to them instead. 

The alarms go off as John is meeting with Irene, Thoreau, and Bhabha, alerting them to a security breach. 

“They found us out,” Irene hisses and suddenly, everyone moves. 

They have emergency protocols for this and John knows his men are already defending their HQ, so his thoughts jump to the omega, alone and unarmed in sickbay. 

John hurries off, exchanging meaningful looks with the Triumvirate, and picks up a second gun on his way. 

He knows all security codes so opening Sherlock’s door is no obstacle. Blue eyes meet his the moment he is in the room. Sherlock’s body is tense, not as scared as John would have expected. 

“Do you know how to fire a gun?” he asks and Sherlock nods. John throws him the Sig and ammunition, then jerks his head. “Follow me.”

Sherlock doesn’t question him, then again he has probably worked out what is happening and can fill in the details as John guides him away from the noises of gunshots and shouting to a door that leads to the tunnels of the Tube. 

John kicks the door open violently. “Go!”

A moment of hesitation, then Sherlock steps through the door and looks back, expression unreadable in the darkness. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, then disappears. The door swings shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's read, left kudos and reviewed :) I'm thrilled that my story is so well received!
> 
> The torture tag refers to the upcoming chapter (consider this a teaser), which I will post on Thursday, presumably, because I'm at work on Friday and don't know whether I'll be home at a decent hour. Besides, I can't wait to continue :)


	4. Evil Has A Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Civil war rages in the Tube tunnels with Captain John Watson at the front lines. Until he is captured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: rather graphic torture, unpleasant!Mycroft (I’m not sure I’d call him evil but usually he’s always rather nice in fics… not in this one, though, sorry. Consider yourselves warned!) 
> 
> And I've changed the rating to Explicit, since I forgot to do that after chapter 2.
> 
> You will recognize several quotes from all over both seasons. 
> 
> Also, this is my favourite chapter... it's quite the ride, so you better hold onto something :) (EDIT: Still my favourite chapter a few months later...^^)

They manage to hold the SAS at bay long enough to bolt a door and retreat. John would rather call it “fleeing”, though, he muses as he and his men filter into the streets of London at dusk. 

The Reformists regroup and for the first time John grasps how strong their forces truly are. He feels his hopes grow stronger but can’t help thinking of blue eyes and wonder if they are still shining with life. 

*

Reports fly in from all colonies: the people are taking up arms and rebelling against the status quo now that civil war is raging in the heart of the Empire. 

They are not losing but they are not winning either, Bhabha and Thoreau and Adler keeping the spirits high along with the leader of the students’ movement. The Thames is separating them from the Traditionalists in the South, but every day more omegas and Betas cross the river – if they survive the escape – and join their ranks. 

The real war rages underground in the Tube tunnels. 

It is there that John and his team are cornered, surrounded by the SAS. Their mission was top secret. This shouldn’t be happening. 

When John recognises their leader, a tall woman named Anthea, directly accountable to Mycroft Holmes himself, he knows they are in more trouble than he previously thought. 

“No one needs to die here,” she calls out. “We only want Captain Watson. The rest of you can leave their weapons behind and go.”

John swallows, then glances at Lubitsch and Wilder.

“Go,” he orders. 

“But Captain -“ Lubitsch starts but John doesn’t let him finish. 

“That’s an order.” 

One by one, his men put their guns on the ground and are allowed to leave, undeterred. When every last one of them is gone, Anthea draws a different gun – tranquilliser, John’s mind supplies – and takes aim. 

John blacks out before he hits the floor. 

*

When he wakes up, his neck is hurting. He moves to massage it but can’t; his wrists and feet are bound to a chair. Whoever did it knew what they were doing; John quickly realises he has no chance to escape the ropes. 

His surroundings tell him nothing more than what he already knew – he is somewhere underground, on the other side of the Thames. 

A key rustles and the door swings open to reveal Anthea, flanked by two men, all three of them armed. 

“Finally he’s in the land of the living.”

They cut his ropes but replace them with handcuffs and guide him out of the room. That they don’t bother with a blindfold tells John enough about how tight their security is to not try anything right away. He simply follows, an eerie calm settling over him. 

They ride an elevator to a higher floor. A hotel, John realises, as he follows Anthea into a foyer, the two men behind him. 

The brightness of the room hurts his eyes at first, so it takes him a while to see Mycroft Holmes standing in front of an empty chair, umbrella in hand. Mycroft Holmes always carries an umbrella and no one knows why. 

There are more people in the room - John recognises several high-ranking officials, a room so full of Alphas that their scent drowns out the odour of the hotel. Something pulls at the edges of John’s mind while the goons push him onward and his eyes wander until they find piercing blue ones, staring at him. 

Sherlock Holmes, inscrutable mask tightly in place, is standing behind the major group of people. John’s heart clenches as his look falls on the bruise on Sherlock’s cheek bone and the collar around his neck. 

Anger boils hot inside him but there is nothing he can do, it isn’t safe, so he schools his expression as he faces Mycroft, whose smirk is way beyond pleased. 

“Have a seat, John.”

“I’d rather stand,” he counters but Mycroft merely chuckles and motions to the goons behind him. Gloved arms grab his shoulders and force him down onto the chair.

“You don’t seem very afraid.” Mycroft’s eyes are a cold grey, John notices. 

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

This time, Mycroft actually laughs. 

“Ah, yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

John doesn’t rise to the bait. He feels Sherlock’s eyes on him and when he concentrates, he can smell a hint of his spicy-sweet scent underneath all the other sensations in the room. 

“But let’s not focus on simple semantics, John. You’re surely wondering why you’re here.”

John cocks his head. “I’d guess you want information.”

Mycroft gives him an appreciative smile. 

“Indeed. What can you tell us about the new Reformist base of operation?” 

This time, it is John’s turn to laugh. “You honestly believe I will give you the blueprints and our whereabouts, just like that?”

“Sadly, no. But I can be very persuasive.”

“I doubt that.”

“Your loyalty is touching.” Mycroft turns away after that and confers with Anthea, who leaves the room. 

John isn’t worried. He knows pain, has experienced too much of it to care. Pain passes, eventually. He glances across the room at Sherlock, takes in the collar and his daunt expression like he hasn’t been sleeping well enough, and knows he has to protect his brothers in arms if he wants to see all collars banished from the face of the Empire. 

Mycroft notices his glance, however brief it was. 

“Yes, of course. You two met, I take it?”

“Briefly,” John replies, not sure what Sherlock told his brother about his time with his captors. 

“Sherlock, come here,” Mycroft orders lazily. When his brother doesn’t comply, he barks out, “Now!” and someone standing next to Sherlock pushes him forward. 

The man looks completely out of place, stopping a few feet from Mycroft like a slave is taught to do. But there is still a fire in his eyes that soothes something in John, proof that Mycroft may have taught Sherlock new tricks but has in no way broken him. 

“Sherlock here told me all about his time with you. I must say, letting Sherlock live through his first heat on his own is cruel even by Reformist standards, but then my brother can be quite stubborn and you probably didn’t want to add rape to your kidnapping charges.”

John isn’t surprised that Sherlock failed to mention the details of their encounter and he replies without missing a beat. “Well, we respect every person’s decisions, no matter their status.”

“All this idealist talk is starting to bore me.”

He waves dismissively at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes but does as he is told, and John could swear the corners of his mouth are curling up, as if to mock his brother for buying into Sherlock’s obedience. 

Anthea is back, a new soldier in tow with a brutal face and a sadistic grin in place. 

John doesn’t know how much time passes – everything is a blur of pain. They start with electroshocks but soon stop when they realise John isn’t talking. They dip his chair back after that, pouring buckets of water onto his face and forcibly hold his mouth open. John never liked swimming and swears never to dive into a pool ever again while he is trying to catch his breath with Anthea firing questions at him. 

Everyone else has gone; John didn’t take Mycroft for a man to watch his minions torture people anyway. 

“You ready to talk yet?” Anthea asks, sounding amused. 

John shakes his head and they dip his chair back again. 

The sun has gone down when they set the water buckets aside and go for his fingernails. They don’t pull anything out – too barbaric for the civilised Empire, John muses – but the pain is worse than anything he ever imagined. 

He shakes his head again and again until he feels hands rip open his shirt. Anthea pushes it back enough to expose his chest and stomach and suddenly John is fully aware of the small flame thrower in the new soldier’s hands. They are heating a piece of iron which, John can only guess, bears the seal of the Empire. 

As the hot iron burns his skin right above his heart, John screams for the first time that day. 

*

They take him underground after that, bind his wrists and hang him up on them against the wall. Palestinian Crucifixion, his brain supplies belatedly. He is already exhausted, can hardly stand up, and when he falls asleep he will fall forward, putting all his weight on his shoulders. 

He forces himself to stay awake but it is a lost battle. There is pain everywhere, each movement hurts and his body yearns to pass out until John can’t hold his eyes open any longer. 

Hands are on his shoulders, a voice whispers “John!” and he jolts awake, then cries out in pain as he feels the strain in his shoulders, the wound on his chest throbbing. 

He blinks, can make out a man standing in front of him in the dark light of the cell. Blue eyes meet his and his heart leaps despite his confusion. 

“Sherlock?”

“Keep quiet! I couldn’t put too many sleeping pills in the guards’ drinks.” 

“What?” he wants to ask but then he feels the rim of a bottle against his lips. 

“Drink,” Sherlock urges him and John does, small sips because his throat is hurting too much to swallow more. He drains the entire bottle anyway. 

“Open your mouth,” Sherlock murmurs and John obeys, tastes what appears to be a sandwich and bites down eagerly. 

“Why are you doing this?” he rasps when half the sandwich is gone and his stomach starts to complain because of the strain. 

“You have to stay quiet,” is all he receives in answer and Sherlock holds the food up again. 

John shakes his head. “I can’t, no more.”

Sherlock nods and puts the sandwich away, then turns and meets John’s eyes. His look is still distant but the corners of his eyes are softer now and John wants to drown in the bright blue. He draws a deep breath and inhales Sherlock’s scent, lets it fill him, soothe him. 

“Sherlock,” he begins, but a finger against his lips silences him. 

“Shh. I’m working on a plan. Hold on a little longer – will you do this for me?” 

John’s thoughts are tripping over each other but he has enough presence of mind to nod. Sherlock withdraws his fingers and makes to leave, yet he pauses at the door. His feet carry him to John again, closer this time, incredibly close, before Sherlock places his lips above John’s in a chaste kiss. 

John’s mouth parts and captures Sherlock’s bottom lip between his before they draw apart again. He hears the door close silently behind him. 

*

John loses all sense of time. 

Only Sherlock’s nightly visits hint at the hours that have passed, at how many days John has spent in that hotel, with barely enough food to keep him alive and the minimum of water. The food Sherlock sneaks in helps him hold onto his wits, so he still notices things. 

Like Mycroft growing more and more impatient with him because he still hasn’t talked. 

It is day five when Mycroft enters the chamber, John shivering and wet from the water and the electroshocks that filled the hours of the day. 

“John, John, John,” he sighs and draws up a chair to sit down next to him. “I’m very disappointed in you. This amount of loyalty is not healthy.”

John merely raises an eyebrow – not that he has the strength to do more than that anyway. 

“I hate to say this but you leave me no other choice. We’re going to execute you.”

John’s head snaps up, sending jolts of pain down his spine. He narrows his eyes at the man in disbelief. Executing an Alpha is a dramatic move, even for Mycroft. 

“I know, I don’t like it any more than you do. It will do wonders to break the rebels’ spirit, though.” Mycroft crosses his ankles leisurely. “So, what do you say? I’ll give you another day and the day after that, we will take you outside where everyone can see and take a gun to your head.”

John clenches his jaw and wishes looks could kill as he aims his most threatening glare at Mycroft. All the man does is chuckle.

*

“John.” He wakes to Sherlock’s hands on his shoulder. For the first time, John is allowed to lie down during the night, and he went out like a light the second he lay down on the floor. 

“Sherlock.” He smiles up at blue eyes, inhales deeply. The smell startles him. “Sherlock, you’re -“

“I know.” 

Sherlock considers him with a grim expression. John hasn’t realised that it has been that long already since they shared a bed, since Sherlock experienced his first heat. He doesn’t dare imagine what will happen in a place like this when his body betrays him once again, without John there to make his mind stop. 

“What are you going to -“ he tries, but he is interrupted again. 

“That isn’t our highest priority right now, John. Drink.”

John takes the bottle with shaking hands but manages to drink on his own without spilling too much and is ridiculously proud of it. He picks up the energy bar next, a highly nutritious substitute for the sandwich Sherlock brought him that first night. 

When he is finished he looks up again, finding Sherlock deep in thought. 

“Now might be a great time to fill me in on your plan,” he rasps, voice hurting from lack of use. 

Sherlock shakes himself out of his thoughts. 

“It’s quite simple, actually. Tomorrow night, when everyone is asleep. I’ve thought about every angle. Are you strong enough to fire a gun?”

“Yes.” He isn’t, not at the moment, but John knows what he is capable of it with enough adrenaline flooding his system. 

Sherlock looks like he is reading his mind and a small smile tugs at his lips. John feels the sudden urge to kiss those lips, and he is finally in a position to actually do it, so he props himself up on one hand while the other cups Sherlock’s face, thumb caressing his cheek, fingers winding their way into dark curls. Sherlock complies, follows the pull of his hand willingly and then they are kissing, soft and lazy, as if they have all the time in the world. 

They don’t, though. Sherlock pulls away far too quickly but it was enough to leave John dizzy and smiling. 

“Sleep,” Sherlock says and pushes him softly back down onto the floor. 

*

They tune down the torture the following day, opting instead to leave John alone for long periods of time, presumably to consider if he would like to change his mind after all. 

It never crosses his mind, not for one second, not even when they alternately hit him with burning hot and ice-cold water until his brain is about to shut down from sensory overload. 

They throw him back into his cell at the end of the day, not bothering with food because he will be dead tomorrow anyway, but John wouldn’t have had a chance to eat it for the moment he lies down, he passes out again. 

He wakes up to lips on his, Sherlock’s scent present in the room around him and John kisses back, enjoying the simple pleasure without reading too much into it. 

Sherlock draws back and John opens his eyes. They fall on two guns on the floor, a bit of ammunition, two bottles of water and a few energy bars next to them. Sherlock is wearing a black coat, similar to the one they captured him in. He must have stolen it – he hasn’t seen Sherlock wear it when he caught glimpses of him around the hotel.

“We have to hurry.”

Sherlock extends a hand and helps him up, taking his weight when John’s knees give out at first, not used to standing on their own for so long, but soon enough, his balance is back and he picks up the gun. 

“I’ve planned a route and drugged the guards, yet the sooner we move the better.”

He nods, then follows Sherlock out of the cell and through a maze of hallways that Sherlock deftly navigates. He probably has the layout memorised, John thinks in amazement as he follows, gun drawn, adrenaline pumping through his body, and he feels more alive than he has in the past week. 

When Sherlock checks around a corner, his black coat shifts enough for John to see his neck. 

“Sherlock, you still have the collar!” Collars have tracking devices, they need to take it off, now – 

\- but Sherlock holds up a key with a smirk. “We have to wait until we’ve escaped. It triggers an alarm when opened, even with the key.” 

John nods and they proceed. All guards on their way are fast asleep. 

“I laced the canteen food,” Sherlock explains curtly and picks the lock on a door, and another and another until they reach a deserted hallway. John has no idea how far below the surface they are.

Sherlock aims for a grating in the floor which he pulls out. John can see steps descending further underground. 

“It leads into the sewers. It’s not on the new schematics, though,” Sherlock smirks, looking utterly pleased with himself.

“Amazing,” is all John can breathe out. 

He takes Sherlock’s collar off a few doors down because the next door leads into the Tube tunnels and they want to leave a false trail. John resists the urge to stomp on the collar when he flings it to the ground. Sherlock’s right hand is rubbing his neck. 

“You okay?”

“Fine.” The tone is nonchalant, yet John can see that Sherlock’s eyes have gone softer and his spine isn’t as tense as before. 

The climb into the sewer canals is difficult since John keeps missing the steps or slips when his hands cramp up from the strain of holding on for dear life. When his feet hit solid ground, he sighs in relief and leans against the wall next to the steps, trying to catch his breath. 

“Come on, we have to hurry,” Sherlock says when he jumps down from the ladder and John has to bite back a comment about how he sounds like his brother when he uses that tone. 

Instead, he follows Sherlock’s lead. 

“Where are we going?”

“I have an ally; we can hide at his place for a few hours before we try to get across the river.”

“I thought you didn’t have friends?” 

“He is no friend.” Sherlock’s expression is unreadable. “But he is a sympathiser. He has helped me before.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything else and keeps walking.

*

John has never been happier to be able to breathe fresh air. He gulps it down like he wants to drown himself in it as he runs after Sherlock through the night, stars shining above them. 

Their destination is an apartment building, nestled between more apartment buildings in one of the nicer parts of town. Sherlock rings the doorbell next to a nameplate that reads “Lestrade”. 

“Yeah?” a voice asks through the intercom. 

“Your pizza, sir,” Sherlock replies and the sound of a buzzer signals that the door is open. 

They climb up to the third floor where a door is slightly ajar and Sherlock slips in, John right behind him, gun at the ready because one can never be too careful. 

The apartment is cramped but cosily so. Books, magazines, and newspapers fill the cupboards in the hallway, and the living room looks much the same. Sherlock’s eyes take everything in and John can hear his mind working, deducing, drawing conclusions. 

The man in the living room is in his early forties, hair already greying, but his face is honest and he holds his hands up calmly when he catches sight of John’s gun. 

“Lestrade, meet Captain John Watson, John, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.” 

John lowers the gun slowly and meets Lestrade’s hand when he extends it in greeting. 

“Pleasure,” the DI says and actually sounds like he means it. 

“So you’re the DI who -“

“Whose case you manipulated to kidnap Sherlock. Yes.” It is said teasingly – clearly Lestrade doesn’t hold too big a grudge. 

“Well, I caught your serial killer,” Sherlock drawls as he slips out of his coat, revealing he is wearing dress trousers, shirt and jacket. If it weren’t for the marks the collar left where it rubbed against Sherlock’s neck, one would never assume he had been a slave. 

“You did,” Lestrade concedes. 

Sherlock sniffs the air. “I’ll use the shower, I reek of the sewers. Lestrade, if you could hand John a first-aid kit, I’m sure he has some wounds to tend to.”

They are both staring after Sherlock who disappears through a door – presumably into the bathroom. 

John clears his throat. “He means thank you. For harbouring us.”

The DI chuckles. “It’s the least I can do, being on this side of the Thames and all.”

He steps past John into another room and returns with a first-aid kit. “Take what you need.”

“Thank you.” John sets the box down on the living room table and gratefully sinks into an armchair while Lestrade takes the seat opposite him. 

“Sherlock said you helped him before?” John asks, retrieving salve and bandages for the wound on his chest. 

“He came to me after he escaped from you, said because I’d already figured out he was an omega anyway and never said anything, I could as well take him in for a night or two.”

John looks up at that, giving the DI a questioning look. 

“I’ve known Sherlock for a bit now,” he explains, “and if you’re a detective long enough you learn to read the signs. He’s always been different, especially as an Alpha, but most guys just thought he’s weird.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“‛cause it made no difference, really. Most of the time I really want to punch him but he’s still the best detective I know, so…” 

John can imagine that all too well - Sherlock’s cocky attitude at a crime scene, flaunting in and out, one look enough to tell him who the murderer is.

He opens his shirt, for the first time really noticing how dirty it has become during his week in captivity. 

“I’ll give you some clothes,” Lestrade says, then winces as he catches sight of the mark, standing out starkly against John’s skin. 

“You need help with that?”

“Actually, yes. My shoulders still aren’t very useful.”

“Do I want to know?” 

John shakes his head, smiling despite himself, granting Lestrade access to the wound which he tends to with steady hands. During his time with the police he probably had to deal with his fair share of injuries, John muses. 

“You can have the guest room for tonight. It’s only got one bed and I don’t have a spare mattress but I doubt that will be a problem?” 

John splutters at Lestrade’s raised eyebrow. 

“I haven’t made DI because of my looks, you know.”

“What gave it away?” John can’t help but ask. 

“When Sherlock came here I asked him if he had gone into heat yet and he was really quiet about that. Then after he had gone and his brother found him, I read that you guys let him suffer through his heat alone. Doesn’t add up in my books. And then he contacts me, says he might need refuge for a while for himself and another Alpha. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

Lestrade shrugs and applies the bandage over the wound carefully. 

“So one bed okay?”

John doesn’t really know what to say. It would mean actually thinking about what has been happening between him and Sherlock and he doesn’t know if that is a good or just a really terrible idea. He settles for “I’m not sure… it’s complicated.”

Lestrade must have inferred his inner monologue – after all, he knows Sherlock “I don’t have friends and my body is merely a vessel” Holmes, too. 

“I’m sure there are enough blankets to make one of you comfortable on the floor, if not.”

Sherlock returns quickly after that, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, and John takes his turn, accepting what looks like old police trousers and a dark shirt as well as pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt from Lestrade. It takes a while but in the end, all the dirt of the past days has washed off, along with the scent of the sewers, and he slips into the sleep clothes.

Back in the living room, John accepts pizza and tea from their host – the pizza is reheated but the tea is hot, and at this point John hardly cares as long as it is food. 

They develop a plan: rest tomorrow and move at nightfall, when the darkness serves as at least a bit of cover. Lestrade knows of certain Tube tunnels that are farther West but less dangerous to pass. The plan isn’t bulletproof, but it is all they have. 

Now that the adrenaline isn’t coursing through his blood anymore, John can feel the exhaustion creep into his extremities, can feel his eyes droop. 

“Well, I know who needs to go to bed right now.” Lestrade rises, Sherlock and John mirroring him. The DI disappears into another room, returns with a pile of blankets which he deposits in the guest room and wishes them a good night. 

John stops awkwardly at the foot of the bed, unsure whether he should offer to sleep on the floor or suggest they share. 

Sherlock is already changing into another pair of worn trousers but ignores the t-shirt Lestrade gave him and throws back the covers. 

“Come on,” Sherlock beckons and it is really that easy – John slips in with Sherlock. 

The mattress feels like heaven against his back after nights of sleeping with his hands tied to a wall or lying on the bare floor. He gives a contented sigh which Sherlock seems to think is amusing somehow, yet John doesn’t find it in himself to care as the other man shuffles closer and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck like he did those nights at HQ. 

John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, wrapping his arm around the other man and allows sleep to take him. 

*

John spends most of the next day sleeping like a dead man. He makes out the tell-tale noises of Sherlock moving around the apartment, believes he hears newspapers rustle, wakes up once to find tea and a sandwich next to the bed and eats it, after which he promptly falls asleep once more. 

He feels almost like himself again in the late afternoon hours when he takes another shower simply because he can and then goes looking for Sherlock. Lestrade is apparently out working, keeping an ear open in case he hears anything about John’s escape. 

“Lestrade said to help ourselves to the fridge,” Sherlock says, not looking up from the newspaper in his hands. 

John makes bacon and eggs, enough for the both of them because he sees no dirty plates lying around, which means Sherlock probably hasn’t eaten. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes when John pushes the plate towards him, as well as another mug of tea. 

“Eat. We’re planning to cross the Thames today, you need your strength.”

“Yes, mummy,” Sherlock shoots back with an eye-roll, but he eats the food anyway. 

They are packed and ready at nightfall, not that they have much with them beyond water, energy bars, and ammunition, when they hear the key turn in the lock of the front door. 

“Lestrade’s early,” Sherlock wonders. John tenses up immediately, hand darting to his gun. 

He has it out the moment the door opens, but the newcomer merely smiles. 

“Please, as if I don’t have sharp shooters on that roof. I don’t like to get my hands dirty.” He brushes down the front of his suit as if to prove his point.

John glances at Sherlock and does a double take as he sees a distinctive red dot moving across his chest, hovering right above his heart. 

“There’s one on your back as well, John.” 

Recognition hits him like a bucket of cold water. “Richard Brook?” 

The man’s laugh is malicious and kind of insane. “Not really. Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, very evil cliffhanger. Couldn't resist! 
> 
> A big THANK YOU to everyone who has been commenting and following this fic - your enthusiasm is the greatest cheerleader :)


	5. Where Loyalties Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty unveils his plan while John and Sherlock try their best to get out of the situation alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little helpful information: The Reformists own London north of the Thames, the Traditionalists the part south of it.

“Moriarty?” Sherlock sounds as if he knows the name. “You’re the one who made the cabbie kill those people.” 

“Yes, that was an exciting one, wouldn’t you say?” His dark eyes land on John and turn cold. “Of course, our soldier had to come and ruin it. I had such great plans for Sherlock here. I’ve wanted to give you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see… like you!”

John glances at Sherlock again, whose expression changes to something akin to amazement. 

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant,” he breathes out, but how he drew this conclusion, John cannot fathom. 

Moriarty, meanwhile, is smiling proudly. “Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me – and no one ever will.”

“I would have.”

“You would,” Moriarty admits. “Now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

Moriarty shrugs. “Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting’s over, Sherlock… Daddy’s had enough now!” he adds in a high-pitched sing-song voice that makes the hairs on John’s neck stand up. 

“Why?” John finally asks. “We’re at war, what has Sherlock got to do with anything?”

Another malicious laugh. Moriarty’s eyes are on him now. “You see, it’s not only about Sherlock here, it’s also about you. If I let you return to your comrades, they will rejoice, grab new hope, yadda yadda yadda, and the civil war is over before the fun has really started.”

“That’s a good thing!”

“A few nations disagree.”

“Of course,” Sherlock breathes out. “An unstable Empire brings a lot of people a lot of money.”

“I knew you would understand,” Moriarty smiles and John wants nothing more than to wipe it off his face. 

“People will die!” he shouts instead. 

“That’s what people DO!” The last word rings loud in John’s ears but Moriarty is already smiling again. “Like you will, very soon. Any last words?”

John’s mind is reeling, has been for the past minutes, desperate to come up with an exit strategy, though he doesn’t know how fast the sharp shooters will react if he moves. 

He has lowered his gun but he still has it; he could shoot fast, but probably not fast enough. Then he sees it. 

Sherlock is talking, yet the words don’t register as John maps out their escape. 

“Well, I’d better be off,” Moriarty announces, bouncing on his heels. 

“Not so fast,” John says, raising his hands with the gun turned to the side. “I have one last question.” 

“Now or never, John.”

He catches Sherlock’s eyes and prays to whatever Gods are out there that the man catches on quickly. 

Then he whirls around, aims, shoots, ducks, grabs the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat and drags him to the floor with him as the gas from the fire extinguisher fogs the apartment in thick, white smoke, clouding everyone’s view. 

Together, they crawl towards the hallway, as quick as they can. They jump to their feet and hurry down the stairs, John constantly checking if Moriarty is following them. 

The second they are out of the front door, John freezes. Another shooter, dressed in black, is aiming a gun at Sherlock and John has a split second to register that the man’s trigger finger is moving and to make a decision. 

He pushes Sherlock aside and takes a shot of his own, knows before his bullet makes contact that it hits the man’s heart, then falls to the ground as pain erupts somewhere near his left ribs. 

The shooter is down, John sees, but the pain tells him that the man had time to pull the trigger. He scrambles to his feet, sees Sherlock do the same after he fell due to John’s push but he seems unharmed so they are off again, John running after Sherlock who turns two corners and enters a garden. At the back of the house is another shaft, already opened - John suspects Lestrade’s involvement - and they are climbing again, John’s hands steadier this time. 

John hurries after Sherlock until the man stops inside what looks like a very old Tube tunnel. 

He collapses against the wall, not really feeling the pain but fully aware of the blood soaking his shirt. 

Sherlock is suddenly in front of him and crouches down to take a closer look. 

“There’s a lot of bleeding but it looks like it just grazed the skin.”  
“That’s good,” John breathes out heavily. 

Sherlock pulls his scarf off and presses it against the wound, placing John’s hand over it to hold it in place.

Sherlock rises, meeting his look with soft eyes, then averts his gaze again. “That, er… thing that you, er, that you did; that…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “That was… good.”

John feels his throat constrict so he simply nods, chest tight. It occurs to him that he could easily have died when he pushed Sherlock aside, a possibility that his brain had surely registered but ignored completely when it decided to make his body jump and shoot. 

He reaches out without thinking, dips Sherlock’s chin up so that their eyes will meet and just looks because he doesn’t know what to say, has no clue what one says when you realise you are ready to take a bullet for someone. 

He does the only thing that makes sense – he kisses Sherlock, hoping it will express everything he is trying and failing to say. After a brief hesitation, Sherlock kisses back, eager and passionate, taking John’s breath away. 

Eventually they have to pull apart; they are not safe yet, still on the run. John smiles and nods, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, a sudden sense of euphoria making him dizzy, and they continue on their way. 

*

Sherlock knows he should be watching their surroundings, listen for sounds of a possible threat, yet his eyes wander back to John sleeping next to him, snoring faintly, head resting on the bloodied scarf. 

His brain scrambles for words to describe his feelings, but then feelings have never been his strong point. He can read other people’s emotions, sure, but his own were always a mystery. It was easier when there was no one in his life he interacted with regularly except Mycroft and Lestrade and perhaps Molly from the morgue, but those relationships were always clear, never confusing. 

Hell, John is confusing. The man is a paradox, full of contradictions. He is a soldier to the bone, a good one, too, can kill with swift efficiency but has learned to heal as well. He likes order, yet fights in a civil war that throws the country into turmoil. He kidnaps Sherlock, brother of the Reformists’ worst enemy, then shows kindness. 

His scent makes Sherlock feel safe, secure, it is addictive and Sherlock can’t seem to get enough of it, recognised it the moment Anthea brought him in, couldn’t stay away from him then. 

Sherlock remembers how his heart did something strange when he saw John hanging from the wall, remembers something akin to panic overcome him when he heard Mycroft was planning to execute John, remembers the sweet kisses neither his nor John’s biology had excused at the time, remembers how his heart stopped for a moment when he heard the shot and thought that John had died, killed by a bullet meant for him. 

His hand, developing a mind of its own, winds its way into John’s hair, stroking softly, and he hears the man hum in his sleep. 

Sherlock smiles down at the sleeping figure and wishes he could curl up next to him, bury his face in the crook of the neck that accommodates him perfectly. 

Physical proximity used to put Sherlock off, still does, but it is different with John – with John he is yearning for it. 

*

He lets John sleep for a few hours before he wakes him and they continue on their way. Sherlock can see their progression in his mind, knows which turns to take and when, where the soldiers probably are, where they could be. 

“How did you end up at Mycroft’s?” John asks out of the blue. “Lestrade told me you came to him first.”

“I returned to my flat shortly after. I wanted to grab a few things but my brother was already waiting. I miscalculated.”

“How did they treat you?” Sherlock can hear the unvoiced questions in the inflection, can imagine John’s body language even without turning around. 

“Fine. I had to work for Mycroft constantly. It was tedious.”

“They didn’t hurt you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He knows that some wanted to, but Mycroft still believes in treating slaves with respect. 

Respect. Slaves. That bloody collar. 

Sherlock’s hand feels his neck, checking that it is really gone even though he knows it is.  
They encounter a patrol, only two men but proof that they are getting closer to the unofficial border. 

John takes them out efficiently, then searches their bodies and appropriates the ammunition while Sherlock retrieves their radios, which pays off soon. They manage do dodge two more patrols before their luck runs out. 

They turn a corner and stumble over two soldiers taking a break who scramble to their feet the second they are in sight. It comes down to hand-to-hand combat and both John and Sherlock survive with minimal bruising while they leave the men behind, one bleeding out from his own knife, one with his neck broken by John’s bare hands. 

*

John guesses it is late afternoon when they finally cross underneath the Thames, having circled wide to avoid the strongest patrols. Sherlock found a set of deserted tunnels in the end and is sure that they will be able to walk on undisturbed. 

A few hours later, John’s knees buckle and he crashes to the floor. 

“I vote for a break,” he pants, aware that Sherlock is already on the floor next to him helping him up. 

“Let’s look for a dark corner where we’re hidden from view.” 

They settle deep in the shadows, Sherlock positioning himself in a way that he can play lookout again, but John is having none of that. 

“I’m a light sleeper, come on, I will hear anyone who comes near us.” He pulls Sherlock down, pleased when he complies. 

“If they cut our throats, it’s all on you,” he snaps but there is no real bite behind it. The way he snuggles up against John’s chest also doesn’t help his case. 

“Sherlock Holmes, cuddler. Who’d have deduced that.” Sherlock freezes, but John squeezes him with the arm around his back. “I like it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock comments, voice soft. He nestles his head in the crook of John’s neck, a perfect fit, and John allows the spicy-sweet scent to fill his lungs. 

They don’t manage more than a few hours but it is enough for John to regain some of his strength. 

*

Their pace has been slowing down, gradually but it has, and it is his fault entirely, John knows it. The bleeding has stopped but the wound still hurts, and he tires quickly now. They have no more food left so they press on. 

Sherlock’s strides have become shorter, John notices, and he is grateful for it because he doesn’t have to hurry so much to keep up. 

John told Sherlock everything about where the Reformists have put up camp, where they defended their part of the city and he trusts Sherlock’s skills to guide them somewhere they can make contact. 

They have gone west, crossed the Thames somewhere near Vauxhall and are now heading further northwest. If they were above ground level, John would probably recognise where they are but in the darkness of the Tube tunnels, it is anyone’s guess. 

“There’s a door coming up on our left,” Sherlock says suddenly. “It leads to the District Line.”

“Which station?”

“Earl’s Court,” Sherlock answers without missing a beat. 

“You are brilliant.” It escapes John before he can stop the words and Sherlock turns toward him. He almost looks incredulous, as if no one had ever said these words to him. 

“Of course I am.” Sherlock aims for arrogance but John can hear the slight hint of insecurity, can see it in those blue eyes that are boring into his as though looking for the answers to the universe. 

“You truly are.” 

They continue looking at each other until John realises they have a decision to make, then belatedly catches up with the fact that Sherlock left the decision up to him. 

He clears his throat. 

“We should take it, go through the door. We have patrols there.”

Sherlock nods, turns away and walks on. 

*

John hears footsteps before he sees the men they belong to. His left arm stretches out to stop Sherlock, who has fallen into step beside him rather than in front of him ever since they passed through the door. 

He can feel Sherlock’s pulse quicken underneath the thin fabric of the shirt. 

The noises indicate a patrol of four, it is their designated number of men per team, so John is fairly certain they are dealing with his men. 

“Who’s there?” he calls out and the footsteps still around the corner. 

“The future,” a voice John recognises shouts back. He feels elation course through his body when he realises who they’ve run into. “Who’s there?”

“A supporter of the Triumvirate,” he calls back instead of following protocol, hoping that Lubitsch would get the joke. 

Silence. Then, “What’s your name?”

“Captain John Watson, First Officer of the Reformists.” 

“Prove it,” Lubitsch commands and John can’t help the proud smile. He taught his men well, it would seem. 

Sherlock next to him is following the exchange with faint interest. 

“The last time we had time to have a beer, you told me about your crush on one of the nurses - Emily, I think -, waxing poetry about her eyes and hair. Shall I go on? Because you told me a lot more embarrassing things that evening.”

He glances over at Sherlock, who – John can hardly believe his eyes – is laughing quietly. 

“John? Blimey… You can come around, sir, we won’t shoot you.”

With a jerk of his head he indicates to Sherlock to follow as he approaches the corner of the Tube tunnel. 

“I’m on my way, but I’m not alone. Don’t shoot.”

He doesn’t let go of his gun but has his arms raised at shoulder height, gun pointed outward, as he steps into his men’s field of vision. It truly is Lubitsch, flanked by three men in uniform, weapons drawn, but John can see they are not ready to shoot. 

“Bloody hell, it’s really you!” Lubitsch lowers his gun and smiles radiantly, as though seeing John is the best thing that has happened to him all day, and he indicates the others to put their weapons away. 

John pushes his Sig in his waistband when Lubitsch’s eyes catch sight of the man behind him. 

“Is that Sherlock Holmes?” His fingers tighten around his gun but John raises his hand and draws himself up to his full height. 

“Yes. He is an ally. Don’t shoot. That’s an order.” 

Lubitsch obeys without hesitation. If Sherlock were capable of looking impressed, this would be it, John muses as he smirks at the man. 

When they have reached the soldiers, Lubitsch sees the blood on John’s shirt, dry by now but still visible for what it is. 

“You’re hurt, sir.”

“Just a scratch, it’s stopped bleeding. I could do with something to eat, though. We both could.”

“Of course, sir. Follow us, there’s a base of operations in South Kensington Station, it’s not far.” 

They fall into step with the soldiers and for the first time in a week, John allows his body to relax properly. A glance to his side tells him that worry is still etched in the lines of Sherlock’s body and John can empathise – these were the very men that held him prisoner for a week. 

“What’s our status?” John asks, eager to learn news. It is good news, as it turns out. They still haven’t gained an inch of London, but more supporters keep joining them every day, either from the surrounding area or from across the river. They are strong in numbers and with Sherlock’s knowledge of his brother’s strategies on their side, John feels they might even win this war soon. 

If Sherlock cooperates, that is. 

“Sir, what happened to you? We heard nothing, no ransom demand, not even a threat.” It is one of the soldiers; John is sure he has seen him before but he can’t recall his name. 

He sighs and wonders how often he will have to tell the story of his capture during the next hours. “They took me to a sort of hotel, tortured me for information. When they finally realised I wasn’t going to talk, they decided to kill me instead.”

“Is that when you escaped, sir?”  
“Yes. Sherlock broke me out. I couldn’t have done it without him.” 

The soldier stares quietly, eyes darting from John to Sherlock, whose stoic expression doesn’t change except for his eyes: there is warmth in them when they meet John’s. 

“Oh, thank you for bringing him back to us, Mr Holmes!” the man says with a blinding smile.

Sherlock opens his mouth, trying to find the appropriate answer. 

“Just say you’re welcome already,” John chuckles and gives Sherlock a playful shove with his shoulder. 

“Er, thank you,” he mutters, but the soldier seems happy enough about it. 

*

South Kensington Station welcomes John like a hero, cheering when they see him, expressing their happiness that he is alive, firing questions at him while at the same time handing them a sandwich each. 

Lubitsch has disappeared into the communication room to inform their HQ at Charing Cross about John’s return and reappears with a car and a patrol at hand that will take John and Sherlock to the Triumvirate. 

“I bet they’re dying to hear your story,” Lubitsch says as he sends them on their way. He is in charge of the base, he explained, and has to stay with his troops. 

It feels like a cab ride, with Sherlock and him sitting in the back, a soldier in the front driving an appropriated police car, and a heavily-armed van right behind them. It is nice to catch a glimpse of the London above the tunnels for a change.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” John says to break the silence, turning towards the man on his left. 

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

“Bollocks, you always have something to say.”

“I wasn’t sure the observation that Officer Lubitsch has been sleeping with that nurse Emily for the past few weeks would sit well with him in the presence of his subordinates.”

A laugh escapes John. 

“No, you’re right. Anything else I should know?”

“Only, if you care for trivialities like which soldier ate what for breakfast, who keeps feeding stray cats and dogs, who has a hidden crush on one of his fellow officers or who has a severe case of OCD. Other than that, no.”

John bursts into laughter and it feels perfect, freeing in a way because he hasn’t laughed like that in a long time. “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” he manages. “But no, not that important.” 

“I gathered as much.” The tone is flat but John can see the corners of Sherlock’s lips curling upward. 

“Listen, Sherlock,” John begins, now that they are alone and he doesn’t know how long it might last. “I have been thinking. About what you are going to do when we reach HQ. Do you think you can help us? Devise strategies, come up with a plan? I’m sure you know a lot about Mycroft’s movements and his weaknesses. You could help us win this war pretty soon, avoid a lot of bloodshed.”

Sherlock’s eyes are on him now, boring into his in that particular way that makes John feel like he is being x-rayed. 

“And why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, because it would save a lot of people?” Sherlock looks unimpressed and with a jolt, John realises he is approaching the topic all wrong. This is Sherlock Holmes he is talking to. “Or consider it a puzzle. A challenge. Finding a way to undermine the Traditionalists, prove to everyone how clever you are. How about that?”

He hit a nerve with that, he can see in in the way Sherlock’s spine straightens. 

“You can show your brother what you’re capable of, too.”

Sherlock is smiling now, and John knows he has won. 

“That sounds interesting. But I have one condition.”

“Anything.” 

_Anything I can convince Adler, Bhabha, and Thoreau of, that is_ , John adds in his mind. 

“Mycroft stays alive.”

“Oh, of course, he’s your brother.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Sherlock snaps immediately and from the tone, John knows he’s sincere. 

“Then why?”

“His death would upset Mummy.”

John stops the laugh halfway up his throat and reins in his expression. 

“Alright. Deal.”

He knows it will be a lot to ask for but at least he can count Bhabha on his side. 

*

As soon as they reach their new HQ – a hotel at Charing Cross Station since Westminster is too close to enemy lines and the buildings have been bombed – John and Sherlock are led to the council chambers where the Triumvirate awaits. 

John enters first after trying to smile encouragingly at Sherlock which he is pretty sure he failed to do. Bhabha is in front of him before he realises it, pulling him into a tight hug. 

“John, we were so worried!”

It has been a while since John last saw the omega, two or three weeks before his abduction, and his eyes widen as they take in Homi Bhabha’s shape. He looks ragged, still clad in a suit but that and the dark circles under his eyes don’t distract from the fact that he has lost a lot of weight recently. 

“Jesus, sir, are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, John, it comes with leading a civil war. You’re the one who’s been captured.”

“We’re glad to have you back, Captain,” Marc addresses John as he rises from where he has been sitting. 

Irene Adler’s eyes, meanwhile, land upon Sherlock, who lets his eyes slide casually up and down her body. John would love to hear his thoughts on the woman. 

“Lubitsch told us you were bringing him.” Her voice is cold; she is not happy. 

“He saved my life,” is all John says but before Irene can argue, Bhabha gestures to the table. 

“Please, let’s sit, I’m sure you two must be thirsty.”

John’s eyes fall on the bottles of water – and is that tea? – so he obeys immediately. Sherlock takes the seat next to him and accepts the water as well as the cup John passes him. 

Marc is waiting, even John can see that, so he drinks quickly and turns to the leader, raising his brows expectantly. 

“I think we need to hear the full story.” Marc crosses his arms in front of his chest and even though John feels like being interrogated with part off the Triumvirate looming over him – save for Bhabha, who took a seat as well – he begins. 

He is almost entirely truthful, yet if he doesn’t know what it is that Sherlock and he share, and no one else needs to hear about it. 

“And you expect us to simply accept Sherlock Holmes as one of us now?”

John meets Marc’s eyes with a steady look and rises to his feet. 

“Yes, I expect you to welcome him without any hard feelings.”

“Are you sure he isn’t working for his brother, that he -“ Irene starts but there is no way John is going to let her finish that train of thought. 

“No, Irene. His own brother basically abducted him when he returned to his flat, his own brother collared him. And I’m not your First Officer because I’m a bad judge of character. If I say he is trustworthy then you will believe me.” He is bordering on angry now, hot emotions bubbling to the surface because they are accusing Sherlock of – the mere thought is unimaginable. 

Bhabha sighs that teacher-like sigh of his, like they are all just unruly children. 

“I take it you have a plan, Captain?”

John lets his smile become more of a smirk when he turns to Mark and Irene. 

“Yes. I heard from Lubitsch that we are stronger in numbers than ever. Let’s use that to our advantage. Sherlock will help us come up with a strategy to take on the Traditionalists.” He can see Irene opening her mouth to object, but at his raised hand she bites her tongue. “Sherlock knows the layout of the Tube tunnels better than any map, he even knows those out of service. He knows how his brother operates and the make-up of what’s left of the Empire. With his help, we will win this war with a minimal amount of casualties. His only condition is that we keep Mycroft alive, but I doubt that will be a problem.” He eyes the Triumvirate briefly before concluding, “Do we have an understanding?”

“Let that tyrant live?” Marc bellows. “Are you out of your mind? He’s behind most of the pro-slavery legislation, he is the Empire!”

“He’ll be flattered to hear that,” Sherlock quips and everyone turns to him. Sherlock snorts derisively before he, too, stands up. 

“Please. Mycroft standing trial and sentenced to a life in prison is a much better example for your followers. Aren’t you advocating civil rights and democracy? It always slips my mind,” he adds sardonically, pacing the room, and if there weren’t so much at stake, John would laugh. 

“Besides, only because you like the war so much, Mr Thoreau, doesn’t mean you have to draw it out if it needn’t be prolonged. As for you, Miss Adler,” Sherlock turns on his heels and focuses on Irene, radiating with Alpha hormones, “it’s sad to see that one so devoted to the cause keeps reverting to Alpha physiology to intimidate the only omega in your group. I’m glad to see it’s not working.” He smirks at Bhabha, who – if he hadn’t been on board with John’s plan to begin with – would probably have reconsidered now. 

“As to your questions: No, I’m not working for my brother, he is a power-hungry Alpha with a superiority complex to rival that of yours, Thoreau. I, on the other hand, don’t care much for politics, yet I thrive on the prospect of proving to Mycroft that I am, in fact, of superior intellect than he is despite my biological disadvantages. I assure you, lady and gentlemen, I am the world’s best consulting detective and without my help, you will lose hundreds of soldiers. Thousands will suffer while Mycroft tries to regain his footing and in the end, you might even lose. Make your choice.”

John has to lock his jaw to prevent it from dropping open. He remembers the times Sherlock told him about his cases; he was equally reverent then, yet seeing him talking Thoreau and Adler against the wall of the council chamber is another thing entirely. 

John closes the distance and positions himself clearly on Sherlock’s side. A second later, Bhabha crosses the space between them and joins as well. 

Marc holds his gaze for a long moment. John can see the wheels in his mind turning, assessing the risks of taking Sherlock’s deal against refusing it, until he nods in grim determination like a man walking to his execution. 

They all turn to Irene, who huffs and throws her hands up in defeat. 

“Fine. But I’m keeping a close eye on you!” She points and Sherlock, who indulges her and smiles back. 

*

If John was hoping for a comfortable bed, he finds himself out of luck. 

They immediately start planning, Sherlock surprising everyone except for John when he presents them with whole strategies, altering them when he learns about their equipment. 

By the time their plan stands it is late but John is full of adrenaline at the promise of swift action. 

“Your room is still intact,” Bhabha tells him when they conclude their meeting. 

“Thank you. I will find something suitable for Sherlock.” 

It is only when they are falling into step in the hallway that John glances at Sherlock and they both laugh. 

“I suppose you figured it out?” John asks, still chuckling.  
“If you’re referring to your distraction while your true intent was to offer me a place in your bed, then yes.”

“Good.”

John can’t help smiling, not even when they reach his room. Sherlock scans it, taking in the documents on the desk, the bed, still made impeccably from before John’s abduction, the laptop on the night table.

“I could do with a shower,” John says with an inviting look at Sherlock. 

There are a few horrible seconds when he is in the bathroom and the door doesn’t open again behind him, but then there is Sherlock, coat left behind in the room, his hands already at the buttons of his shirt. John can see how dirty it is in the bright light from the bathroom lamp. 

“Are you sure that your wound doesn’t need tending?”

John’s stomach flips when he detects a hint of genuine concern in Sherlock’s voice. 

“It’s fine. I’m a doctor, don’t worry.”

He folds his shirt on the stool next to the sink, hands moving on to his belt. They are both naked quickly and John turns the shower on. 

After all the time in the sewers and the Tube tunnels, clean water is a relief and John soaps his body with relish. 

“Turn around,” John murmurs, soap in hand. Sherlock is hesitant but complies, then relaxes under John’s hands when he feels the soap coating his back. John has to reach up a little for the shoulders, moves onto Sherlock’s arms, then returns to the shoulder blades, soap firm in his right while the left hand traces its movements. 

He dares to touch lower, lets it linger briefly on Sherlock’s lower back before he moves the soap over the swell of Sherlock’s firm buttocks, half an eye on Sherlock’s reflexion in the glass of the shower. 

As his hand ghosts over pale skin, Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed and John knows he is allowed to continue. He puts the soap back and lays both hands on the tense muscles, massaging firmly but gently until Sherlock melts underneath his hands. 

John places a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder as he picks up the soap again, bringing his arms around the lean body in front of him, soaping his chest and stomach. The omega leans back into him and John catches a hint of arousal in the air, though with the smell of soap he cannot say whether it is from him or Sherlock. 

John feels his blood rush into his groin when he puts the soap back and returns his attention to Sherlock’s front, running his hands over his chest, caressing his sides, thumbing his hip bones. 

The smell is stronger now, coming from both of them, and John lets the spicy-sweet musk fill his nose as he places another kiss right on the pulse point of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock hums and his fingertips start caressing John’s forearms that are still tracing invisible patterns on Sherlock’s chest. 

It is lazy, luxurious even, whatever “it” is, John muses and brushes his fingers over Sherlock’s hip bones once more.  
Sherlock shifts in front of him, but not out of the embrace. Instead he pushes his lower body back until his buttocks make contact with John’s cock and John can’t help the moan that escapes him. 

Sherlock turns his head, raises a hand to John’s head and manoeuvres him until their lips meet with an intensity that has John’s pulse racing. 

“Take me, John,” Sherlock whispers against his lips, eyes half-closed and dark, pupils blown with desire. 

John’s right hand travels to Sherlock’s back, traces the spine until his fingers slip between Sherlock’s cheeks and he can feel the slick, slips two fingers inside easily and Sherlock presses back against them, burying them deep inside. John crooks the fingers and explores, his memory guiding him until he feels it, presses against it until Sherlock shouts from the pleasure of it. John withdraws the fingers to add a third when he sees Sherlock bowing his head and his breath hitches at the sight of such a submissive pose. 

He has barely entered Sherlock again when the omega whines and pushes back. 

“I’m ready, John, come on!”

“So pushy,” John chides and grabs Sherlock’s cock, head probably wet with precome already but he can’t tell under the spray of water. John’s fist closes tight around the pulsing flesh, his strokes are quick and Sherlock is panting, head resting on John’s shoulder. His left hand returns to tease Sherlock’s hole, slipping in, stretching until Sherlock has to brace himself against the glass of the shower because he is shuddering from the sensations. 

“I need you to say it,” John rasps in his ear, pressing his chest against Sherlock’s back, rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s arse, which rips a guttural groan from the man. 

“Damn it, John,” he pants, but it is not what John wants to hear so he merely pushes forward between Sherlock’s thighs until he is sure the omega can feel the head of his cock against his balls. 

Sherlock’s moan sounds almost annoyed, yet his voice is laced with need when he finally speaks. 

“Please, John.”

“Good,” he answers and tongues Sherlock’s pulse point again while one of his hands part his cheeks and he pushes inside with a quick thrust. 

He grips Sherlock’s hips to steady himself as he sets a strong rhythm, adjusts the angle and yes, that’s it, Sherlock is moaning now, a constant stream of noises John soaks up just like the smell that fills the room now. The tight heat around his cock is pure bliss, water running down their bodies, and he can’t even feel the wound in his side anymore, only the jolts of pleasure that travel through his body and make him shiver. 

He reaches around with one hand and strokes Sherlock’s erection, almost painfully hard in his grip. Three, four, five movements of his hand and he can feel Sherlock tense for a moment before he arches his back and spills, John’s name on his lips. 

Hearing Sherlock shout his name in such pleasure is his undoing; he slams in and can feel his knot swelling. Sherlock whimpers at the stretch but he rocks back against John and it is almost too good, too much pleasure and he is coming hot inside Sherlock and just manages to pull out before he would have locked them together in this position. 

Sherlock is the one who turns off the water and they dry each other off. John lends Sherlock clothes to sleep in; they are too big but too short at the same time, yet seeing Sherlock in his worn military pyjamas appeals to the Alpha in him enough to make his knot throb at the sight.

They curl into each other automatically, it is so natural how Sherlock fits into his side, head on his chest and an arm wrapped across his torso. 

They lie there for a moment, basking in each other’s presence. 

“John?”

He hums and opens his eyes to find Sherlock looking up at him, eyes clear and open in a way John has never seen them before. Sherlock almost looks vulnerable like this, he muses. 

“I may have manipulated the plan a little.” John narrows his eyes but nothing in Sherlock’s demeanour speaks of ill intentions. “In that we will start the offensive in a week’s time and not sooner. I believe I’m going into heat shortly.”

“Oh.” There is a lump in his throat all of a sudden, a slight panic that this is Sherlock telling him that he doesn’t want to spend the cycle with John but he pushes the feeling down. “Do you, I mean, if you want… Do you want me to be there for you?” he finally manages and meets the blue eyes. 

“Make a deduction,” Sherlock says, an almost evil smirk playing around his lips. 

John chuckles nervously. “Well, you came for me during the night while I was a prisoner. You,” his voice falters a little and he wills it to sound firm and secure with moderate success, “you kissed me. You broke me out.” Another nervous chuckle. “You cuddled with me. And now… My deduction is that you want me to help you through your next heat. Am I correct?” he finishes, daring a glance at the detective. 

“I want you for a lot more than that, John,” Sherlock breathes out, warm air ghosting over John’s chest. “But yes, your deduction is accurate.”

The smile forms with sudden intensity and Sherlock returns it. It is the first time that Sherlock has really smiled, freely and with all his face and body and it amazes John more than anything else. 

He meets Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. It is chaste in contrast to what they have done that night, but it feels more intimate than anything John has ever experienced. 

“I want you for a lot more, too, Sherlock,” John murmurs. 

He can still feel the smile on Sherlock’s lips against his chest when he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a bit fluffy there, in the end.... couldn't help it!
> 
> It really makes me sad that I only have the epilogue left, I would have loved to post a few more chapters but the story is almost told, I'm afraid... I hope you enjoyed the resolution!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks later.

“What about him?”

“Comfortable as a Beta, almost unhealthy addiction to romance novels, two small dogs, will propose to his girlfriend within the next few weeks.”

“And the woman in the red dress?”

“Clearly overcompensating. Omega, been a slave until recently, her hands keep darting to her neck, she’s not used to the world as it is yet, though she tries to fool everyone present into thinking she has adjusted well.”

“And that one?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Someone’s PA, diligent, hard-working, fears now that Omegas are equal, they will become his competition.” He sighs in exasperation and shoves his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo. “These people here are all boring, John, this whole event is tedious – when can we leave?”

“We’ve only been here for an hour, we can’t leave already. Sherlock, this is important.”

The Omega looks as though John has grown a new head and John brings up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose, thinking of a way to make Sherlock understand the significance of this night. 

“It’s merely a celebration,” Sherlock states, disdain audible in every syllable. 

“It’s not just a celebration, Sherlock, this is the celebration! We have a new government, even an Omega Prime Minister, that’s huge, even you have to see that!”

Sherlock huffs. “I concede that this evening is of historical significance, yet I fail to understand why it’s vital to drag me to this party with you.”

John can only shake his head. “People expect us to be here, Sherlock, after what you did to help win the civil war. Can’t you just accept that everybody is happy that you’re attending and quit nagging?”

Sherlock glares at him some more, but John can see that he is finally won in the way Sherlock’s body shifts slightly towards him.

“Fine. But the promised compensation better be worth it.”

John smirks suggestively as he adjusts the collar of his uniform. “Oh, don’t you doubt me…” His thoughts wander back to some equipment he recently purchased but before his fantasy is allowed to run away with him, he sees the familiar figure of Homi Bhabha approaching. 

The leader has regained a bit of the weight he lost during the war while he was campaigning for the voters’ favour these past weeks and his torso is straining against the fabric of his three-piece suit like it did when John met him for the first time. 

“John, how nice that you came! You even brought Mr Holmes.”

John moves to shake Bhabha’s offered hand. “I had to come, it’s not every day I can congratulate you on becoming Prime Minister.”

“The people have spoken, I am pleased to say so. All the people,” he adds, giving Sherlock what seems to be a solitary nod that the man fails to acknowledge. 

“So, how are things?” John asks instead before Sherlock has the chance to say anything inappropriate. 

Bhabha sighs, though it sounds mostly content. “Fairly well, I have to say. Most colonies have already declared independence, yet some want to remain under our sovereignty. The Americas have split completely, and it seems that separating themselves from us and his predecessor Bush is Obama’s greatest goal. But our country is up and running again, as the young would say,” Bhabha smiles. 

“That’s great to hear,” John answers emphatically. 

“We couldn’t have done it without you, John, don’t forget that,” Bhabha insists, then continues, looking at Sherlock, “nor without you, Mr Holmes. That was quite the brilliant scheme you came up with.”

“I certainly like to think so,” Sherlock replies and John resists the urge to jab him in the ribs with his elbow. 

“He means thank you,” John explains, yet Bhabha doesn’t seem to be upset. 

“Have you visited your brother in prison?”

“Once. To gloat.” Sherlock’s voice is cold but John remembers that day, how emotionally draining the experience was for Sherlock even though he never let it on. 

_I know him better than he does himself sometimes_ , John muses with a rush of affection. 

Meanwhile, Bhabha is laughing but he doesn’t get a chance to reply as some other politician whisks him away, leaving Sherlock and John alone again. 

John can’t help but smile at the sight of the crowd: Alphas, Betas, Omegas, all there as equals, celebrating the dawn of a new era. 

A few times during the execution of Sherlock’s plan, John almost believed they would fail. It had looked bleak. But then, with several ploys executed at once, they destroyed everyone and everything that was holding up the old Empire. Except Mycroft Holmes of course, who stood trial and would now rot in prison. 

John would have loved to see him hang, would have gladly shot the bastard himself but he couldn’t do that to Sherlock. 

Sherlock. 

The Omega’s piercing blue eyes are lazily scanning the people closest to them, taking in every little detail. His body is relaxed under the fabric of his tuxedo, his stance communicates boredom to everyone willing to listen. 

John smiles as he remembers the day Thoreau, Bhabha, Adler, and the leader of the students named the Empire a thing of the past, declaring a democracy in which every citizen would have the same rights, no matter their status. Both John and Sherlock were exhausted, worn from days of fighting and not knowing whether they would be successful. 

It still puzzles John how he ended up at 221B Baker Street, in Sherlock’s flat, in Sherlock’s bed as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and perhaps in Sherlock’s eyes, it was. 

John still had work to do, organising a new nation in terms of security, freeing the last slaves, helping rebuild London and from time to time help Sherlock with a case he received – stole might be the more accurate verb to use, John is sure – from Lestrade. 

What John will do now that the nation has been reorganised is beyond him, though. He hasn’t had much time to think about it yet. 

A while later both John and Sherlock find themselves alone on the balcony, away from the crowd and the cheering and the music, and John feels safe to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s waist. The Omega leans into the touch, closing the distance between them, and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck. 

John inhales deeply, the spicy-sweet scent so familiar by now because it is part of his scent, too, and every time he smells it, his heart jumps and the Alpha in him purrs contentedly. 

“John,” Sherlock begins, drawing back. His eyes focus on John’s. “Do you like events like this?”

He opens his mouth but Sherlock answers for him, of course deducing his thoughts before they have even formed in his head. 

“No, of course you don’t, you’ve been on edge for the past hour. Obvious, of course, you’re a soldier, have been fighting for the past years and now the thrill is over and you’re left with cocktail parties and politics. Tedious.”

John narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Sherlock sighs and steps back, separating them, and John immediately misses the heat of his body against his own. 

“What will you do now that your mission is complete and the Reformists have won?” Sherlock’s face is blank again, like a mask, and John hates it. He has become very capable of reading Sherlock in the past few weeks, but whenever he schools his expression into this stoic mask, John is grasping at straws. 

“I’m not sure,” he answers after a long silence. “I’ll probably await new orders.”

“No. My idea is better.” Sherlock smirks. “Obviously.”

“What idea?” John considers Sherlock, looking for any kind of clue that can tell him what the other man is up to. 

Sherlock steps closer again but doesn’t reach out to touch him. His gaze is lowered and he seems to be considering how to go on. When he looks up, his expression is still stoic but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“We are a good team, John.” Sherlock’s voice is strong, confidently so, but his eyes betray that he is afraid that John might decline whatever suggestion is to come. 

“Yes.”

“You have been enjoying helping me solve cases, I observed.”

John nods, eyes locked with Sherlock’s, and finally, the other shoe drops. 

“What,” he says, “you want a sidekick?” There is a smile on his face and John feels elated all of a sudden. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to the ground, then up again, his expression openly vulnerable for a brief second before he schools it once more. 

“If you’ll have me.” 

John takes a deep breath, wondering if he should think this decision through more thoroughly but it feels so right, so brilliantly right like everything with Sherlock does, so he decides to throw caution in the wind. 

“I’ll always have you, as long as you want me.”

He is rewarded with one of Sherlock’s rare, genuine smiles that light up his entire body and he can’t help but close the space between them and press his lips to Sherlock’s. 

It is passionate and not at all chaste but John doesn’t care if anyone sees them, because this is it, this is one of the moments in his life that change its course forever, right up there with joining the Reformists and kissing Sherlock for the first time, only better – because right now, it feels like this might be forever. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, it's complete! Can't believe it.... Couldn't have done it without all you guys, your comments and kudos have been great motivation!
> 
> A special thanks to merlenhiver, who's going on hiatus as my beta! THANK YOU! I'm devoting this story to you, my dear :)
> 
> UPDATE: Thanks to Bonfoi for pointing out a few mistakes and typos! I had time to work the corrections in, finally!
> 
> ..... SURPRISE! This is NOT THE END. My muse has teamed up with those of you who wanted more chapters and I'm currently working on part II. If there are things you would like to see (like missing scenes, there are some planned, no worries), just say so. I can't promise that I'll work your suggestions into the story, but I will try :)
> 
> EDIT 16-11-2013: Part II has been under way for a bit now and I'll finish it soon, I promise!


End file.
